524
METTA V. VICTOR.
[1850-60.
And these sweet visions from his hand
Be more than a delightful dream?"
I asked ; and still the voice replies—
"When Beauty is of higher worth
Than Gold, in men's far-seeing eyes,
Then Love shall paint for all the Earth."
Be more than a delightful dream?"
I asked ; and still the voice replies—
"When Beauty is of higher worth
Than Gold, in men's far-seeing eyes,
Then Love shall paint for all the Earth."
THE HONEYSUCKLE.
PART FIRST.
It covers the ancient castle
Over all its southern wall;
It makes for itself a trestle
Of arch and battlement tall;
It waves from the lofty turret —
It swings from the stately tower —
It curtains the grim old castle
As fair as a lady's bower.
At the time of the midnight wassail,
At the time of mirth and wine,
I seek no other pleasure
Than to look on the royal vine —
It brims my soul with the measure
Of a happiness divine.
Over all its southern wall;
It makes for itself a trestle
Of arch and battlement tall;
It waves from the lofty turret —
It swings from the stately tower —
It curtains the grim old castle
As fair as a lady's bower.
At the time of the midnight wassail,
At the time of mirth and wine,
I seek no other pleasure
Than to look on the royal vine —
It brims my soul with the measure
Of a happiness divine.
I sit without, in the meadow;
The trees sing low and sweet,
The tremulous light and shadow
Play all around my feet;
I am full of summer fancies,
I breathe the breath of flowers,
I see the river that glances
Beneath the castle-towers;
I hear the wild-bee's story,
I see the roses twine —
But the crown of all, and the glory,
Is the Honeysuckle-vine!
The trees sing low and sweet,
The tremulous light and shadow
Play all around my feet;
I am full of summer fancies,
I breathe the breath of flowers,
I see the river that glances
Beneath the castle-towers;
I hear the wild-bee's story,
I see the roses twine —
But the crown of all, and the glory,
Is the Honeysuckle-vine!
'Tis the type and ideal of summer.
Tropical, brilliant, serene!
It shehers the light-winged comer
In a cool and Avavy screen;
It is full of vague, soft noises,
Sweeter than sweetest rhymes,
Than insects' murmurous voices,
Finer than fairy-bell chimes;
It is the queen and the wonder
Of all the vines that grow.
And the stately elms stand under.
Surprised to see it so.
It floats in the yellow sunshine —
It swims in the rosy light —
It dreams in the mellow moonshine
Through all the August night.
It is still when the breeze is quiet.
It moves not leaf nor limb —
And oh, what a wild, sweet riot
It holds along with him!
They dance together proudly
A gay, ethereal dance.
And the happy breeze laughs loudly
As its garments rustle and glance!
Tropical, brilliant, serene!
It shehers the light-winged comer
In a cool and Avavy screen;
It is full of vague, soft noises,
Sweeter than sweetest rhymes,
Than insects' murmurous voices,
Finer than fairy-bell chimes;
It is the queen and the wonder
Of all the vines that grow.
And the stately elms stand under.
Surprised to see it so.
It floats in the yellow sunshine —
It swims in the rosy light —
It dreams in the mellow moonshine
Through all the August night.
It is still when the breeze is quiet.
It moves not leaf nor limb —
And oh, what a wild, sweet riot
It holds along with him!
They dance together proudly
A gay, ethereal dance.
And the happy breeze laughs loudly
As its garments rustle and glance!
I cannot tell the fancies
Which crowd my brain at times,
Nor the soft, delicious trances
Beguiling my thought to rhymes:—
If I love the Honeysuckle,
I have rivals many and true;
The bee his belt doth buckle
And sharpen his small-sword, too.—
He will sting me if I go nearer—
He will swear he has kissed her lips—
That nectar never was clearer
Than the honey-dew he sips.
Which crowd my brain at times,
Nor the soft, delicious trances
Beguiling my thought to rhymes:—
If I love the Honeysuckle,
I have rivals many and true;
The bee his belt doth buckle
And sharpen his small-sword, too.—
He will sting me if I go nearer—
He will swear he has kissed her lips—
That nectar never was clearer
Than the honey-dew he sips.
The humming-bird, he will tell me
He has lain in her breast for hours;
The butterfly seeks to repel me
With his wings like living flowers.
And the bright sun doth adore her—
He is my rival brave;
He bows his torch before her
Like some gay-appareled slave.
He lights the million tapers
Which burn upon her shrine,
He dries the morning vapors
Which will not let them shine.
He has lain in her breast for hours;
The butterfly seeks to repel me
With his wings like living flowers.
And the bright sun doth adore her—
He is my rival brave;
He bows his torch before her
Like some gay-appareled slave.
He lights the million tapers
Which burn upon her shrine,
He dries the morning vapors
Which will not let them shine.
