by Alexander Smith.
Originally published in The National Magazine (National Magazine Company) #2 (Dec 1856).
The autumn ways are full of mire,
The leaves shower through the fading light,
The winds blow out the sunset's fire,
And like a lid comes down the night.
I sit in this familiar room,
Where mud-splashed hunting squires resort;
My sole companion in the gloom
This slowly-dying pint of port.
'Mong all the joys my soul hath known,
'Mong all the errors which it grieves,
I sit at this dark hour alone,
Like Autumn 'mid his withered leaves.
This is a night of wild farewells
To all the past, the good, the fair;
To-morrow—and my wedding bells
Will make a music in the air.
Like a wet fisher tempest-tost,
Who sees throughout the weltering night
Afar on some low-lying coast
The streaming of a rainy light,
I saw this hour,—and now 'tis come;
The rooms are lit, the feast is set;
Within the twilight I am dumb,
My heart filled with a vague regret.
I cannot say, in Eastern style,
Where'er she treads the pansy blows,
Nor call her eyes twin-stars, her smile
A sunbeam, and her mouth a rose.
Nor can I, as your bridegrooms do,
Talk of my raptures. O, how sore
The fond romance of twenty-two
Is parodied ere thirty-four!
To-night I shake hands with the past—
Familiar years, adieu, adieu!
An unknown door is open cast,
An empty future wide and new
Stands waiting. O, ye naked rooms,
Void, desolate, without a charm,
Can love's smile chase your lonely glooms,
And drape your walls, and make them warm?
The man who knew, while he was young,
Some soft and soul-subduing air,
Weeps when again he hears it sung,
Although 'tis only half so fair.
So love I thee, and love is sweet
(My Florence, 'tis the cruel truth),
Because it can to age repeat
That long-lost passion of my youth.
O Florence, could you now behold
The man to whom your being flows,
Whom you have chid as hard and cold,
Weep wildly o'er a withered rose!—
But this is an unmanly part—
One long last look, and then I drop
Thy lid, grim iron-box of my heart,
Which never key again shall ope!
O, often did my spirit melt,
Blurred letters, o'er your artless rhymes!
Fair trees, in which the sunshine dwelt,
Which I have kissed a million times!--
And now 'tis done: my passionate tears,
Mad pleadings with an iron fate,
And all the sweetness of my years
Are blackened ashes in the grate.
Then ring in the wind, my wedding chimes;
Smile, villagers, at every door;
Old churchyard, stuffed with buried crimes,
Be clad in sunshine o'er and o'er.
And youthful maidens, white and sweet,
Scatter your blossoms far and wide;
And with a bridal chorus greet
This happy bridegroom and his bride.
"This happy bridegroom!" there is sin
At bottom of my thankless mood:
What if desert alone could win
For me, that chiefest grace and good?
Love gives itself; and if not given,
No pride, no beauty, state, nor wit,
No gold of earth, no gem of heaven,
Can ever hope to purchase it.
"I never, never can recall
Another morning to my day,
And now through shade to shade I fall,
From afternoon to evening gray."
In bitterness these words I said,
And lo! when I expected least,
For day was gone, a moonrise spread
Her emerald radiance up the east.
By passion's gaudy candle-lights
I sat and watched the world's brave play:
Blown out—how poor the trains and sights
Looked in the cruel light of day!
Then you came, Florence, from above,
To me who scorned both fame and pelf,
And with your sweet unselfish love
You saved me from the hell of self.
I saw the smiles and mean salams
Of slavish hearts; I heard the fry
Of maddened peoples throwing palms
Before a cheered and timbreled lie.
I loathed the brazen front and brag
Of bloated time: in self-defence
Withdrew I to my lonely crag
And fortress of indifference.
But Nature is revenged on those
Who turn from her to lonely days;
And Duty like the speedwell blows
Along the common beaten ways.
The dead and thick green-mantled moats
That gird my house resembled me,
Or some long-weeded hull that rots
Upon a dull and glazing sea.
The sun for ever hastes sublime
Waved onward by Orion's lance;
Obedient to the spheral chime
Across the world the seasons dance;
The flaming elements ne'er bewail
Their iron bounds, their less or more;
The sea can drown a thousand sail,
Yet rounds the pebbles on the shore.
I looked with pride on what I'd done,
I counted merits o'er anew
In presence of the burning sun,
Which drinks me like a drop of dew.
A lofty scorn I dared to shed
On human passions, human jars;
I, standing on the countless dead,
And pitied by the countless stars.
But mine is now a humbled heart,
My lonely pride is weak as tears;
No more I ask to stand apart,
A mocker of the rolling years,
Imprisoned in this wintry clime,
Some task I seek, O Lord of breath!
Enough to plume the feet of time,
Enough to hide the eyes of death.
This work is yours:--while loving me
My heart may still its memories keep,
Like some old sea-shell from the sea
Filled with the music of the deep;
And you may watch on nights of rain
A shadow on my brow encroach,
Be startled by my sudden pain
And tenderness of self-reproach.
It may be that your loving wiles
Will call a sigh from far-off years;
It may be that your happiest smiles
Will fill my eyes with hopeless tears;
It may be that my sleeping breath
Will shake, with painful visions wrung,
And in the awful trance of death
A stranger's name be on my tongue.
O Florence, if this should be so!
God grant that happiness may sing
To you, as towards the grave we go,
Like skylark in the ear of Spring!
For me I care not, once I heard:
I've had my day, and it is o'er;
Yet pray that o'er your head the bird
Of happiness may sing and soar.
And all the love I have I give,
My Florence; and howe'er they be,
Sunshine or gloom, the years I live,
You now are all the world to me.
My Love,—pale blossom of the snow,—
Has pierced earth wet with winter-showers;
O, may it drink the sun and glow,
And be followed by all the year of flowers!