The Lake
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then- ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.

To Marie Louise (Shew)
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning -
Of all to whom thine absence is the night -
The blotting utterly from out high heaven
The sacred sun - of all who, weeping, bless thee
Hourly for hope - for life - ah, above all,
For the resurrection of deep buried faith
In truth, in virtue, in humanity -
Of all who, on despair's unhallowed bed
Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"
At thy soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes -
Of all who owe thee most, whose gratitude
Nearest resembles worship, - oh, remember
The truest, the most fervently devoted,
And think that these weak lines are written by him -
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
His spirit is communing with an angel's.

To One in Paradise
       Thou wast all that to me, love,
         For which my soul did pine-
       A green isle in the sea, love,
         A fountain and a shrine,
       All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
         And all the flowers were mine.

       Ah, dream too bright to last!
         Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
       But to be overcast!
         A voice from out the Future cries,
       "On! on!"- but o'er the Past
         (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
       Mute, motionless, aghast!

       For, alas! alas! me
         The light of Life is o'er!
         "No more- no more- no more-"
       (Such language holds the solemn sea
         To the sands upon the shore)
       Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
         Or the stricken eagle soar!

       And all my days are trances,
         And all my nightly dreams
       Are where thy grey eye glances,
         And where thy footstep gleams-
       In what ethereal dances,
         By what eternal streams.

A Valentine
  For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
    Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,
  Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies
    Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
  Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure
    Divine- a talisman- an amulet
  That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-
    The words- the syllables! Do not forget
  The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor
    And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
  Which one might not undo without a sabre,
    If one could merely comprehend the plot.
  Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
    Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
  Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
    Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,
  Its letters, although naturally lying
    Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-
  Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!
    You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.