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77
THE GOLDEN HOUR.
PRELUDE.
“Sweet Nature's pomp, if my deficient phrase
Hath stained thy glories by too little skill,
Yield pardon.”
—Robert Greene.
Hath stained thy glories by too little skill,
Yield pardon.”
—Robert Greene.
In youth's fair season, when the blood
Begins to stir in heart and brain,
As stirs the sap within the bud,
Or virtue in the quickened grain;
Begins to stir in heart and brain,
As stirs the sap within the bud,
Or virtue in the quickened grain;
When the expanding nature glows
With some strange sweetness yet to be,
And all it hopes, or feels, or knows,
Takes shape in dreams of poesy;
With some strange sweetness yet to be,
And all it hopes, or feels, or knows,
Takes shape in dreams of poesy;
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One balmy morn awake I lay
For very joy—what time the bloom
Was whitening on the hawthorn spray,
And winds grew wanton with perfume.
For very joy—what time the bloom
Was whitening on the hawthorn spray,
And winds grew wanton with perfume.
Awake I lay an hour ere dawn,
And through my ivied window gazed
On night's dusk legions slow withdrawn,
And on the morning star that blazed
And through my ivied window gazed
On night's dusk legions slow withdrawn,
And on the morning star that blazed
Broader and brighter as he neared
The western mountains, purple-dark,—
And held my breath, and thought I heard
Far notes of mavis or of lark.
The western mountains, purple-dark,—
And held my breath, and thought I heard
Far notes of mavis or of lark.
And then, when first the rosy gleam
Of sunrise caught the upland firs,
Across my spirit came a dream
Of joy and beauty, such as stirs
Of sunrise caught the upland firs,
Across my spirit came a dream
Of joy and beauty, such as stirs
The being to its depths, and wakes
Within the wondering soul a thirst
No earthly fountain ever slakes—
Not even those deathless springs that burst
Within the wondering soul a thirst
No earthly fountain ever slakes—
Not even those deathless springs that burst
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In music, 'mid the sacred shades,—
Untrod by pleasure's vulgar throng!
Where with the loved Pierian maids
Wander the laurelled kings of song.
Untrod by pleasure's vulgar throng!
Where with the loved Pierian maids
Wander the laurelled kings of song.
Rising, I flung my casement wide;
And through the verdure all unshorn
Came floating in from every side
Sweet sounds and odours of the morn.
And through the verdure all unshorn
Came floating in from every side
Sweet sounds and odours of the morn.
I took a pen, and kneeling there,
Bathed in the freshness and the sheen—
The young wind dancing in my hair—
Wrote down the vision I had seen.
Bathed in the freshness and the sheen—
The young wind dancing in my hair—
Wrote down the vision I had seen.
With heart elate and trembling hand,
The ready numbers as they came
I penned; nor doubted all the land
Eftsoons would echo with their fame!
The ready numbers as they came
I penned; nor doubted all the land
Eftsoons would echo with their fame!
My vision of “The Golden Hour”!
I read it now—Ah, well-a-way!
How poor and vapid!—like a flower
Kept from some long-past festal day,
I read it now—Ah, well-a-way!
How poor and vapid!—like a flower
Kept from some long-past festal day,
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Which, scentless, hueless though it be,
We cherish for those bygone times.
So the fond light of memory
Endears those weak, incondite rhymes!
We cherish for those bygone times.
So the fond light of memory
Endears those weak, incondite rhymes!
Till each poor faded character—
The very paper, soiled and worn—
A phasmal glory seems to wear,
Shed from that trancèd summer morn,
The very paper, soiled and worn—
A phasmal glory seems to wear,
Shed from that trancèd summer morn,
When first—ah, fancy sweet as vain!—
I dreamed that haply even I,
Some noble task achieved, might gain
The meed of immortality! . . .
I dreamed that haply even I,
Some noble task achieved, might gain
The meed of immortality! . . .
Nor let us with too cold a sneer
Rebuke those lofty dreams of youth:
They serve to keep the spirit clear
From sordid aims; and are, in sooth,
Rebuke those lofty dreams of youth:
They serve to keep the spirit clear
From sordid aims; and are, in sooth,
But flutterings of the prisoned soul
That yet shall spread immortal wings,
And, victor at a loftier goal,
Wake music from celestial strings.
That yet shall spread immortal wings,
And, victor at a loftier goal,
Wake music from celestial strings.
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