Мария Джейн Джюсбери (Maria Jane Jewsbury)

Poetical Portraits

I.

A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
And yet a Woman, still and bright,
With something of an angel-light.

                                         Wordsworth.

I KNOW thee but a form of earth,
I know thy wond'rous mind,
Linked ever by its tears and mirth
To all of earthly kind;
A flower's thy strength, a child's thy glee,
And all thy moods of heart,
Though restless as a billowy sea,
In beauty come and part:
Thou art of earth in mind and will,
Yet a soul's spell, a vision still.
Thou art for dreams of summer sleep
Beneath some blossomed thorn;
For love, when happy memories sweep,
Like sun-touched mists of morn;
Thou art a thing that to behold
Is in the heart to shrine;
A bud, that scarce its silken fold
May from the breeze confine;
All joyous is thy mind and mien,
Thou fadeless Rose! Thou fairy-queen!
For thee, in knightly days of old
Would many a lance have rung,
And minstrels at the revel bold
Thy beauty's triumphs sung;
But nobler far thy present meed,
Famed with a mother's fame,
And made to household hearts a need,
Than all romance may name;
I called thee Rose, I called thee well,
But woman's is thine own sweet spell!

II.

There is beauty on thy brow,
Such beauty as the bow,
Child of shower and sunbeam, wears,
Waked and vanishing in tears!

                                        Croly.

BEING of beauty and of grief!
Thy portraiture should be
Written in burning words and brief
Tears tears for thee!
A rose that by a lonely tomb,
Hangs whitening in the sun,
The phantom of its former bloom
Yet lingering on;
A rill once by a mountain side,
Companion blythe and boon,
Till scorching suns its sweet depths dried,
And quenched its tune;
A violet that no sheltering leaf
Hides from the strong rain's swell,
Being of beauty and of grief,
These, thy fate tell!
Desolate in each place of trust,
Thy bright soul dimmed with care,
To the land where is found no trace of dust,
Oh! look thou there!

III.

Gentle, yet restless.

                                                 Joanna Bailie.
 
Like the Aurora Borealis race,
That flit ere you can mark their place.
Burns.

THINE is no form of youthful grace,
No beauty is thy dower,
Yet hidden in that thoughtful face
Are spells of mind and power;
For passion at thy birth was chief,
And gave thee gifts of love and grief.
Thou hast no beauty yet for thee
There throb high hearts and warm;
And oft their looks, like sunbeams free,
Smile down thy spirit's storm;
Yes, thou art loved, yet day by day,
Thy path is in a lonely way.
The dark, the bright in thee combine;
Thy soul like ocean drear,
With many a treasure half divine
Hath many a form of fear;
Thou art like morn and midnight blent
For battle in one firmament!
The brow of youth, the heart of age,
Cold stillness, fitful strife,
Like records on the self-same page
Written of death and life;
These hast thou, and the wreath that grows
For thee is nightshade twined with rose.
One softening touch, one brighter strain,
And then worn heart farewell!
Dews are there that have balmed thy pain,
Though dry life's desert-well;
And hope, the hope of heaven hath smiled,
Thy palm-tree midst the burning wild!

IV.

For oh! she stood beside me like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn.

                                            Coleridge's Wallenstein.

THOU hast wizard power,
Thou art more than earth;
Wherefore else this dower,
In my heart this birth
Of visions new and strange, of glory and of mirth?
A magic scroll unbound,
Seems this world to me;
Beauty strews the ground,
Beauty gilds the sea,
And I have caught the light all from thine eyes and thee.
Now, if I view a rose,
Drooped with dew and light,
'Tis like thee, it grows
Vision of delight,
Or why hast thou such charms, or I such powers of sight?
In some fair dell, hidden
By night, and cool, and green;
Where sweet things unbidden
Scatter song and sheen,
All unto eye and ear, speak of thee my queen.
And a cloud ethereal,
A rich mount of snow,
Floating on imperial,
Is like thee I know;
For it can melt away, or with meek blushes glow.
Oh why didst thou waken
This new power in me!
As by a tide o'ertaken,
Is my spirit free,
And round it press the waves of feeling, like a sea.
But the germ of sorrow
Is all beauty here!
Love with death to-morrow,
May exchange its sphere;
So close again my heart till earth holds nought to fear.

V.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.

                                                  Wordsworth.

FLOWERS of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I find and I gather in country or town;
But one is still wanting,
Oh! where is it haunting?
The bud and the jewel must make up my crown.
The rose with its bright heads,
The diamond that light sheds
Rich as the sunbeam and pure as the snow;
One gives me its fragrance,
The other its radiance,
But the pearl and the lily where dwell they below?
'Tis years since I knew thee,
But yet should I view thee
With the eye and the heart of my earliest youth;
And feel thy meek beauty
Add impulse to duty,
The love of the fancy to old ties of truth.
Thou pearl of the deep sea
That flows in my heart free,
Thou rock-planted lily, come hither, or send;
'Mid flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I miss thee, I seek thee, my own parted friend!

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