Minor Poems, including Napoleon :: :: University of Virginia Library

Monarch of day! once rev'rently ador'd
By virtuous Pagans, if no longer thou
With orisons art worshipp'd, as the lord
Of the delightful lyre, or dreadful bow;
If thy embodied essence be not now,
As it once was, regarded as divine;
Nor blood of victims at thine altar flow,
Nor clouds of incense hover round thy shrine,
Yet fitly may'st thou claim the homage of the Nine.

II

Nor can I deem it strange, that in past ages
Men should have knelt and worshipp'd thee; that kings,
And laurell'd bards, robed priests, and hoary sages,
Should, far above all sublunary things,
Have turn'd to thee, whose radiant glory flings
Its splendour over all. Ere Gospel light
Had dawn'd, and given to thought sublimer wings,
I cannot marvel, in that mental night,
That nations should obey, and nature own thy right.

III

For man was then, as now he is, compell'd
By conscious frailties manifold, to seek
Something to worship. In the heart, unquell'd
By innate evil, thoughts there are which speak
One language in Barbarian, Goth, or Greek;
A language by the heart well understood,
Proclaiming man is helpless, frail, and weak,
And urging him to bow to stone, or wood,
Till what his hands had form'd his heart rever'd as good.

IV

Do I commend idolatry? — O no!
I merely would assert the human heart
Must worship: that its hopes and fears will go
Out of itself, and restlessly depart
In search of somewhat which its own fond art,
Tradition, custom, or sublimer creed
Of Revelation brings, to assuage the smart
With which its inward wounds too often bleed,
When nature's boasted strength is found a broken reed.

V

Can it be wondrous, then, before the name
Of the eternal God was known, as now,
That orisons were pour'd, and votaries came
To offer at thine altars, and to bow
Before an object beautiful as thou?
No, it was natural, in those darker days,
For such to wreathe around thy phantom brow
A fitting chaplet of thine arrowy rays,
Shaping thee forth a form to accept their prayer or praise.

VI

Even I, majestic Orb! who worship not
The splendour of thy presence, who control
My present feelings, as thy future lot
Is painted to the vision of my soul,
When final darkness, like an awful scroll,
Shall quench thy fires;—even I, if I could kneel
To aught but Him who fram'd this wondrous whole,
Could worship thee; so deeply do I feel
Emotions, words alone are powerless to reveal.

VII

For thou art glorious! when from thy pavilion
Thou lookest forth at morning; flinging wide
Its curtain clouds of purple and vermilion,
Dispensing light and life on every side;
Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied
Through glittering mist, opening each dew-gemm'd flower,
Or touching, in some hamlet, far descried,
Its spiral wreaths of smoke that upward tower,
While birds their matins sing from many a leafy bower.

VIII

And more magnificent art thou, bright Sun!
Uprising from the ocean's billowy bed:
Who, that has seen thee thus, as I have done,
Can e'er forget the effulgent splendours spread
From thy emerging radiance? Upwards sped,
E'en to the centre of the vaulted sky,
Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed
Hues indescribable — of gorgeous dye,
Making among the clouds mute, glorious pageantry.

IX

Then, then how beautiful, across the deep,
The lustre of thy orient path of light!
Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and show their crests of white,
The eye, unsated, in its own despite,
Still up that vista gazes; till thy way
Over the waters, seems a pathway bright
For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay
Man's homage unto Him who bade thee “rule the day.”

X

And thou thyself, forgetting what thou art,
Appear'st thy Maker's temple, in whose dome
The silent worship of the expanding heart
May rise, and seek its own eternal home:
The intervening billows' snowy foam,
Rising successively, seem steps of light,
Such as on Bethel's plain the angels clomb;
When, to the slumb'ring patriarch's ravish'd sight,
Heaven's glories were reveal'd in visions of the night.

XI

Nor are thy evening splendours, mighty Orb!
Less beautiful: and oh! more touching far,
And of more power thought, feeling to absorb
In silent ecstacy, to me they are;
When, watchful of thy exit, one pale star
Shines on the brow of summer's loveliest eve;
And breezes, softer than the soft guitar,
Whose plaintive notes Castilian maids deceive,
Among the foliage sigh, and take of thee their leave.

XII

Oh! then it is delightful to behold
Thy calm departure; soothing to survey
Through opening clouds, by thee all edged with gold,
The milder pomp of thy declining sway:
How beautiful, on church-tower old and grey,
Is shed thy parting smile; how brightly glow
Thy last beams on some tall tree's loftiest spray,
While silvery mists half veil the trunk below,
And hide the rippling stream that scarce is heard to flow!

XIII

This may be mere description; and there are
Who of such poesy but lightly deem;
And think it nobler in a bard, by far,
To seek in narrative a livelier theme:
These think, perchance, the poet does but dream,
Who paints the scenes most lovely in his eyes,
And, knowing not the joys with which they teem,
The charm their quiet loveliness supplies,
Insipid judge his taste, his simple strain despise.

XIV

I quarrel not with such. If battle fields,
Where crowns are lost and won; or potent spell
Which portraiture of stormier passion yields;
If such alone can bid their bosoms swell
With those emotions words can feebly tell,
Enough there are who sing such themes as these,
Whose loftier powers I seek not to excel;
I neither wish to fire the heart, nor freeze;
But seek their praise alone, whom gentler thoughts can please.

XV

But if the quiet study of the heart,
And love sincere of nature's softer grace,
Have not deceiv'd me, these have power to impart
Feelings and thoughts well worthy of a place
In every bosom: he who learns to trace,
Through all he sees, that hand which form'd the whole,
While contemplating fair Creation's face,
Feels its calm beauty ruder thoughts control,
And touch the mystic chords which vibrate through the soul.

XVI

Majestic Orb! when, at the tranquil close
Of a long day in irksome durance spent,
I've wander'd forth, and seen thy disk repose
Upon the vast horizon, while it lent
Its glory to the kindling firmament,
While clouds on clouds, in rich confusion roll'd,
Encompass'd thee as with a gorgeous tent,
Whose most magnificent curtains would unfold,
And form a vista bright, through which I might behold

XVII

Celestial visions — Then the wondrous story
Of Bunyan's Pilgrims seem'd a tale most true;
How he beheld their entrance into glory,
And saw them pass the pearly portal through;
Catching, meanwhile, a beatific view
Of that bright city, shining like the sun,
Whose glittering streets appear'd of golden hue,
Where spirits of the just, their conflicts done,
Walk'd in white robes, with palms, and crowned every one.

XVIII

Past is that vision:—Views of heavenly things
Rest not in glories palpable to sense;
To something dearer Hope exulting springs,
With joy chastis'd by humble diffidence;
Not robes, nor palms, give rapture so intense
As thought of meeting, never more to part,
Those we have lov'd on earth; the influence
Of whose affection o'er the subject heart,
Was by mild virtue gain'd, and sway'd with gentle art.

XIX

Once more unto my theme. I turn again
To Thee, appointed ruler of the day!
For time it is to close this lingering strain,
And I, though half reluctantly, obey.
Still, not thy rise, and set, alone, though they
Are most resplendent, claim thy votary's song;
The bard who makes thee subject of his lay,
Unless he would a theme so glorious wrong,
Will find it one that wakes of thoughts a countless throng.

XX

For can imagination upward soar
To thee, and to thy daily path on high,
Nor feel, if it have never felt before,
Warm admiration of thy majesty?
Thy home is in the beautiful blue sky!
From whence thou lookest on this world of ours,
As but a satellite thy beams supply
With light and gladness; thy exhaustless powers
Call forth in other worlds sweet Spring's returning flowers!

XXI

Yes — as in this, in other worlds the same,
The Seasons do thee homage — each in turn:
Spring, with a smile, exults to hear thy name;
Then Summer woos thy bright, but brief sojourn,
To bless her bowers; while deeper ardours burn
On Autumn's glowing cheek when thou art nigh;
And even Winter half foregoes his stern
And frigid aspect, as thy bright'ning eye
Falls on his features pale, nor can thy power deny.

XXII

Yet though on earth thou hast beheld the sway
Of time, which alters all things; and may'st look
On Pyramids as piles of yesterday,
Which were not in thy youth: although no nook
Of earth, perchance, retain the form it took
When first thou didst behold it: even thou
Must know, in turn, thy strength and glory strook;
Must lose the radiant crown that decks thy brow,
Day's regal sceptre yield, and to a Mightier bow!

XXIII

For thou thyself art but a thing of time,
Whose birth with thine one awful moment blended;
Together ye began your course sublime,
Together will that course sublime be ended.
For, soon or late, have oracles portended,
One final consummation ye shall meet:
When into nothingness ye have descended,
This mighty world shall melt with fervent heat,
Its revolutions end, its cycle be complete.

XXIV

And then shall dawn Heaven's everlasting day,
Illum'd with splendour far surpassing thine;
For He who made thee shall Himself display,
And in the brightness of his glory shine.
Redeem'd from grief and sin by Love Divine,
Before his throne shall countless thousands bend;
And space itself become one holy shrine,
Whence in harmonious concord shall ascend
To God, and to The Lamb, praise, glory without end!