And if with them I chance to be,
And give mine ear up to their singing,
It, wind-like, only wakes the sea,
In all its mad monotony,
Of memory forth thy music ringing.
Thou wilt forgive, if now and then
I link with hands less loved than thine;
Whose gold-like touch makes kings of men,
But wakes no will in blood of mine;
And if with them I toss the wine,
And set my soul in love’s ripe riot,
It echoes not—this desert shrine,
Where still thy love from Heaven doth shine,
Moon-like, across some ruin’s quiet.
Thou wilt forgive me, if my feet
Should move to music with the fair;
When, at each turn, I burn to meet
Thy stream-like step and aëry air;
And if, before some beauty there,
Mine eye may forge one glance of gladness,
It is but the ripple of despair,
That shows the bed is all but bare,
And nought scarce left but stony sadness.
Thou wilt forgive, if e’er my heart
Err from the orbit of its love;
When even the bliss-bright stars will start
Earthwards, some lower sphere to prove.
Thou wilt forgive, if soft white arms
Embrace, by fits, this breast of mine;
When, while amid their pillowy charms,
My heart can kiss no heart but thine;
And if these lips but rarely pine
In the pale abstinence of sorrow,
It is, that nightly I divine,
As I this world-sick soul recline,
I shall be with thee ere the morrow.
Thou wilt forgive, if once with thee
I limned the outline of a Heaven;
But go and tell our God, from me,
He must forgive what He hath given;
And, if we be by passion driven
To love, and all its natural madness,
Tell Him, that man by love hath thriven,
And that by love he shall be shriven;
For God is love where love is gladness.
Thou wilt forgive, if clay-bound mind
Can scarce discover that thou art;
But wait! I feel the outward wind
Rush fresh into my fluttering heart.
Perchance thy spirit stays in yon mild star
In peace, and flame-like purity, and prayer;
And, oh! when mine shall fly om earth afar,
I will pray God that it may join thine there:
’Twere doubling Heaven, that Heaven with thee to share.
And, while thou leadest music and her lyre,
Like a sunbeam holden by its golden hair,
May I, too, mingling with the immortal choir,
Love thee, and worship God! what more may soul desire?
Enough for me! but, if there be
More, it shall be left for thee.
If any thing I love in chief,
It is that flowery rich relief
That wine doth chase on mortal metal
Before good wine begins to settle;
But all seem smilingly serenely dull,
And melancholy as the moon at full.
Quenched by their company they seem,
Like sparks of fire in clouds of steam.
They who mourn the lack of wit,
Show, at least, no more of it.
I cannot bear to be alone,
I hate to mix with men;
To me there’s torture in the tone
Which bids me talk again.
Like silly nestlings, warned in vain,
My heart’s young joys have flown;
While singing to them, even then,
They left me one by one.
I envy every soul that dies
Oat of this world of care
I envy e’en the lifeless skies,
That they enshrine thee there.
And would I were the bright blue air
Which doth insphere thine eyes,
That thou mightst met me everywhere,
And feel these faithful sighs.
E’en as the bubble that is mixed
Of air and wine right red,
So my heart’s love is shared betwixt
The living and the dead.
If on her breast I lay my head,
My heart on thine is fixed:—
Wilt thou I loose, as I have said,
Or keep the soul thou seek’st?
From me thou canst not pass away
While I have soul or sight;—
I see thee on my waking way,
And in my dreams thee bright;
I see thee in the dead of night,
And the full life of day;
I know thee by a sudden light;
It is thy soul, I say.
If yonder stars be filled with forms
Of breathing clay like ours,
Perchance the space that spreads between
Is for a spirit’s powers;
And loving as we two have loved
In spirit and in heart,
Whether to space or star removed,
God will not bid us part.
As to this seat—its late and fair possessor
Should, ere she went, have chosen her successor.
In right of her who eat thereon
I think I might demand the throne;
I rather choose to let it be.
George shall be King of the company!
My loving subjects! I shall first promulge
A few good rules by which to indulge;
They are good, according to my thinking,
And shall be held the laws of drinking.
First—each man shall do what he chooses,
Provided that he ne’er refuses,
But shall be sworn, by stand and stopper,
To drink as much as I think proper.
Stay!—all of you who think, with me,
This law should pass,
Will please to signify the same
By emptying their glass.
Filling again and emptying, and so on,
At each law—pari passu, as we go on.
Secondly—no man shall be held as mellow
Who can distinguish blue from yellow.
Thirdly—no man shall miss his turn nor toast,
Nor yet give more than two at once, at most.
Fourthly—if one at table should fall under,
There let him lie—so much extinguished thunder.
Fifthly—let all, in such case, who still stay,
Like living lightnings, but the brighter play.
Sixthly, and last but one—mind this, there shan’t
Be aught said that is not irrelevant.
Seventhly—if any of these edicts should not
Be kept, it shall be good to plead, I would not.
Oh, let the royal law
Be writ in rosy wine!
And read and kept
At every feast
Where wit and mirth combine.
How sweetly shine the steadfast stars,
Each eyeing, sister-like, the earth;
And softly chiding scenes like this,
Of senseless and profaning mirth.
Thou art ever prating of the stars
Like an old soldier of his scars;
Thou shouldst have been a starling, friend,
And not an earthling: end!
And could I speak as many times
Of each as there are stars in Heaven,
I could not utter half the thoughts—
The sweet thoughts one to me hath given.
The holy quiet of the skies
May waken well the blush of shame,
Whene’er we think that thither lies
The Heaven we heed not—ought not name.
Oh, Heaven! let down thy cloudy lids,
And close thy thousand eyes;
For each, in burning glances, bids
The wicked fool be wise.
I can interpret well the stars.
Indeed! they
