EYES

How eloquent are eyes!

Not the rapt poet's frenzied lay
When the soul's wildest feelings stray
Can speak so well as they.
How eloquent are eyes!
Not music's most impassioned note
On which love's warmest fervors float
Like them bids rapture rise.

That your look may light a waste of years,
Darting the beam that conquers cares
Through the cold shower of tears.
Love, look thus again!

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN

I

VICTORIA

I

'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;

Eyes. Published by Rossetti, 1870, dated 1810.

10 light, Esdaile MS., 1890 || lighten, Rossetti, 1870.

Poems from St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian. Published by Shelley, 1810, and dated 1808-1810.

Victoria, Rossetti || without title, Shelley.

Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yell

Nought was seen save the lightning which danced in the sky;

Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.

III

My heart sank within me

Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke;

Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine

This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;

But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

IV

'Twas then that, her form on the whirlwind upholding,

The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode ; In her right hand a shadowy shroud she was holding;

She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.

V

I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me

II

"ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA"

I

GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?

II

For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.

III

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,

O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.

IV

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain

Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead, — On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain,

Whilst a wreath of dark vapor encircles his head.

"On the Dark Height of Jura," Dowden || The Father's Spectre, Rossetti, without title, Shelley.

The mountain repeats

The echoing sound of the knell ;
And the dark monk now

Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.

II

And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay, Which the ghosts of the sky, As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day.

And they sing of the hour

When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa's form to its clay.

But that hour is past;

III

And that hour was the last

Of peace to the dark monk's brain;

Bitter tears from his eyes gushed silent and

fast;

And he strove to suppress them in vain.

Sister Rosa, Rossetti || Ballad, Shelley.

IV

Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear,

For her evermore ;

But for me is fate, horror, and fear."

V

Then his eyes wildly rolled,
When the death-bell tolled,
And he raged in terrific woe;
And he stamped on the ground,—
But, when ceased the sound,
Tears again began to flow.

And the ice of despair

VI

Chilled the wild throb of care,

And he sate in mute agony still;

Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless

air,

And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.

VII

Then he knelt in his cell,

And the horrors of hell

Were delights to his agonized pain;

And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must forever remain.

VIII

And in fervent prayer he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck one;