 | Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems |  |
49
NATURE'S INSPIRATION.
Nature alone can fill the thirsting soul
With that pure depth of high and holy thought,
That bids it soar from earthly things; and he,
Who walks thro' life, unmoved by all the forms
Of radiant beauty o'er the fair earth spread;
Whose heart thrills not, like the Æolian lyre,
With every change the varying year assumes,
Or bounds not with the earliest breath of spring,
Which whispers softly to the slumbering flowers
Their genial wakening time,—who feels no awe
Steal o'er his spirit, when the gathering storm
Wheels in its cloudy car across the skies,
By lightning steeds far borne—knows not the joy,
The pure, unmingled bliss that Nature yields.
With that pure depth of high and holy thought,
That bids it soar from earthly things; and he,
Who walks thro' life, unmoved by all the forms
Of radiant beauty o'er the fair earth spread;
Whose heart thrills not, like the Æolian lyre,
With every change the varying year assumes,
Or bounds not with the earliest breath of spring,
Which whispers softly to the slumbering flowers
Their genial wakening time,—who feels no awe
Steal o'er his spirit, when the gathering storm
Wheels in its cloudy car across the skies,
By lightning steeds far borne—knows not the joy,
The pure, unmingled bliss that Nature yields.
And he, who kneels at Poesy's shrine, and seeks
To win a poet's bays, will find the stream
That tells as it flows on, of forest wilds,
And dells, where, leaping from the green earth's breast,
Its joyous course began, a nobler fount
To wake high thoughts than even Castaly;
And every crag or thunder-riven peak
That lifts its hoary head above the storm,
Will be to him a Delphos. When he treads
Its rock-encumbered crest, and feels the strange
And wild tumultuous throbbings of his heart,
Its every chord vibrating with the touch
Of the high Power that reigns supreme o'er all,
He well may deem that lips of angel-forms
Have breathed to him the holy melody,
That fills his o'erfraught heart. And every breeze
That bears the wild flowers' rifled sweets—each tree
That waves upon the steep, and babbling rills,
Gushing unnoticed save by him alone,
Shall waken feelings in his heaven-lit mind,
That spring like Alpine flowers, to beautify
The waste of worldly thought.
To win a poet's bays, will find the stream
That tells as it flows on, of forest wilds,
And dells, where, leaping from the green earth's breast,
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To wake high thoughts than even Castaly;
And every crag or thunder-riven peak
That lifts its hoary head above the storm,
Will be to him a Delphos. When he treads
Its rock-encumbered crest, and feels the strange
And wild tumultuous throbbings of his heart,
Its every chord vibrating with the touch
Of the high Power that reigns supreme o'er all,
He well may deem that lips of angel-forms
Have breathed to him the holy melody,
That fills his o'erfraught heart. And every breeze
That bears the wild flowers' rifled sweets—each tree
That waves upon the steep, and babbling rills,
Gushing unnoticed save by him alone,
Shall waken feelings in his heaven-lit mind,
That spring like Alpine flowers, to beautify
The waste of worldly thought.
Let him go forth,
Amid the stillness of the silent night,
Where fall the quivering moonbeams through the boughs
Of some dim, shadowy wood; and while the low
And sighing wind breathes through the whispering trees
Like sphery music from the far-off stars,
Commune alone with Nature's majesty,
And feel the presence of an unseen Power
That fills the soul with deep-hushed awe, yet leads.
It from terrestial cares, to soar on high,
And walk with God the starry halls of Heaven!
Amid the stillness of the silent night,
Where fall the quivering moonbeams through the boughs
Of some dim, shadowy wood; and while the low
And sighing wind breathes through the whispering trees
Like sphery music from the far-off stars,
Commune alone with Nature's majesty,
And feel the presence of an unseen Power
That fills the soul with deep-hushed awe, yet leads.
It from terrestial cares, to soar on high,
And walk with God the starry halls of Heaven!
| Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems | |