Мария Джейн Джюсбери (Maria Jane Jewsbury)

Love’s Likeness

A rose hedged with a briar.

                           Drummond.

Alas! what else is love but sorrow.

                           Byron.

THERE is softness in the dew;
And in starlight trembling through
Fleecy cloud, or gentle mist,
That the air may scarcely wist;
There is beauty in the play
Of the moon on flower and spray,
Yet glistening from a shower
That fell in twilight's hour.
There is music that can still,
In the rippling of the rill;
There is music yet more dear
To weary heart and languid ear,
In the bright and deep repose,
Nature after tempest knows;
In her silence then renewed,
Which is only sound subdued.
But there's somewhat softer far
Than morning dew, or evening star;
More musical than all
That man doth music call;
Surpassing Nature's skill,
Or to waken, or to thrill!
And dost thou ask the spell?
Hast thou loved and canst not tell?
Did no fond eye ever shine
Sweet meanings into thine?
No lip the heart betray
By its silent quivering play,
That told what words might never,
Though telling on for ever?
Did a single tone or word,
Just whispered and just heard,
Like an echo faint and clear,
Ne'er sink into thine ear,
And there, as in a cell,
Ever, ever, ever dwell,
Though but in memory shrined,
Sweet music to the mind?
Hast thou loved nor seen a gaze
Fairer than moon-lit maze,
When the depths of soul unsealed,
Are first to light revealed,
And that is seen and shown,
Before, nor guessed, nor known;

A world of precious things
A fount of thousand springs
All treasured up for thee,
Or flowing forth as free?
If this thou e'er hast seen,
If this thou e'er hast been,
Bid other joys farewell;
LOVE only is life's spell;
Of beauty, bliss, and power,
An unimagined dower;
Whilst all in nature rare,
Is but its emblem fair.
Stay, vaunting babbler, stay;
That strain so wild and gay
Will pass like thee its prime,
List a sadder, truer rhyme.
If Love is soft as dew,
It is oft as fleeting too;
If like the rippling rill
Sweet music it distil,
It can like the rill exhale,
Be frozen and can fail;
Like the moon the same beams shower
On many a varying flower,
Smile till they all are gone,
And even then smile on!
Alas! alas! the snares
The frail heart makes and shares!
If thou hast lived and loved,
Full surely hast thou proved,
The grief of vain regretting;
The world's sin of forgetting.
Doth every voice once dear,
Yet echo in thine ear?
Dost thou heed each tender gaze,
As in former far-off days?
Yet, doth the well-proved old
Out value newer gold?
Have none to thee e'er changed?
Art thou from none estranged?
Cease, cease, that joyous strain.
So passionate and vain;
With the gain account the loss,
With the treasure tell the dross.
HEAVEN is of Love the home;
Here, here, it doth but roam
A pilgrim and a stranger,
Beset with toil and danger.
Love on, love on, but know
That love itself is woe,
Uncurbed by self-control,
And earth its final goal.
Love on, love on, but fear,
For its purest, best joys here,
Are timid violets blowing
'Mid thorns all round them growing.
Love on, love on, but higher,
To heaven let love aspire;
Where should the phoenix rest
But in its own bright nest?

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