 | Young Arthur |  |
VARIATION IX.
Nocturnal Vagaries of Fancy.
“My mind to me a kingdom is”—
Says the old ballad—true is this—
My mind's my kingdom “Sir,” (you call)
“Your kingdom must be very small
“If we may estimate it by
“Your rhyme—forgive me—poetry”—
I havn't yet so nam'd it, Quiz;
“What is it then?” Why—what it is.
The night advanc'd, and the fire was bright,
And before it I sat in a musing state;
And I trac'd with a soft and sleepy sight
Forms of things in the glowing grate.
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
When the mind was at pause, like a kite in air,
Ready to rise or ready to fall
As the hand directed that held the ball?
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
By tracing the forms of fancy where,
Tho' learning and logic may hold it scorn,
Is many an hint for reflection born?
Says the old ballad—true is this—
My mind's my kingdom “Sir,” (you call)
“Your kingdom must be very small
“If we may estimate it by
“Your rhyme—forgive me—poetry”—
I havn't yet so nam'd it, Quiz;
“What is it then?” Why—what it is.
268
And before it I sat in a musing state;
And I trac'd with a soft and sleepy sight
Forms of things in the glowing grate.
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
When the mind was at pause, like a kite in air,
Ready to rise or ready to fall
As the hand directed that held the ball?
And hast thou never beguil'd thy care
By tracing the forms of fancy where,
Tho' learning and logic may hold it scorn,
Is many an hint for reflection born?
Hast thou never? then is thy mind
To the playful of innocent fancy blind;
And thou hast ne'er mus'd in a pleasing dream
Which folly to fools alone can seem.
For fancy pursuing an innocent flight
To reason tir'd is the taper's light,
Which far through obscurity darts its ray,
Her wandering cheers, and directs her way.
To the playful of innocent fancy blind;
And thou hast ne'er mus'd in a pleasing dream
Which folly to fools alone can seem.
For fancy pursuing an innocent flight
To reason tir'd is the taper's light,
Which far through obscurity darts its ray,
Her wandering cheers, and directs her way.
I sat by the fire, and, to toy with care,
I trac'd the forms which I fancied there;
And I saw a traveller on a mount,
He seem'd as if climbing much care had cost:
But little could he on his labour count,
For the mountain fell, and the man was lost.
I trac'd the forms which I fancied there;
269
He seem'd as if climbing much care had cost:
But little could he on his labour count,
For the mountain fell, and the man was lost.
And the mount me-thought was the hope we court,
Failing when promising most support;
And the mount me-thought was ambition's height,
And the man was the moral of half his kind;
But let him who in altitude takes delight
Reflect that a mount may be undermin'd;
We climb with glee, and we climb with gall,
We triumph, grow giddy, then totter, and fall!
Failing when promising most support;
And the mount me-thought was ambition's height,
And the man was the moral of half his kind;
But let him who in altitude takes delight
Reflect that a mount may be undermin'd;
We climb with glee, and we climb with gall,
We triumph, grow giddy, then totter, and fall!
And a lion there seem'd with a mane of flame,
A cinder falling, an infant came;
And my mind, absorb'd in a charmed view,
Like the rueful errant Cervantes drew,
The fire seem'd nearer the child to bring
And I fancied the lion prepar'd a spring;
Instinctively starting, I mov'd the fire,
And lion and child in one fate expire.
A cinder falling, an infant came;
And my mind, absorb'd in a charmed view,
Like the rueful errant Cervantes drew,
The fire seem'd nearer the child to bring
And I fancied the lion prepar'd a spring;
Instinctively starting, I mov'd the fire,
And lion and child in one fate expire.
It prov'd how fancy with mind can play,
And it prov'd how nature the heart can sway;
It prov'd how folly gives way to fear,
Starting at shadows for danger near.
And it prov'd how nature the heart can sway;
270
Starting at shadows for danger near.
The night advanc'd and the fire grew low,
And seem'd like a gossip prepar'd to go;
And the measur'd beat of the cuckoo clock
My musing silence appear'd to mock;
And the clock it struck, and the cuckoo's note
Came cheeringly, as from the mock bird's throat;
And when the bird's barrier wide open flew
And the little automaton darted thro',
It seem'd like a gossip, with friendly call,
And a good-natur'd “how dy'e do?” to all.
And when it had done and had clos'd the door,
Its number announc'd, it seem'd like wit;
Which speaks to the matter, and speaks no more,
But leaves an impression like holy writ.
And seem'd like a gossip prepar'd to go;
And the measur'd beat of the cuckoo clock
My musing silence appear'd to mock;
And the clock it struck, and the cuckoo's note
Came cheeringly, as from the mock bird's throat;
And when the bird's barrier wide open flew
And the little automaton darted thro',
It seem'd like a gossip, with friendly call,
And a good-natur'd “how dy'e do?” to all.
And when it had done and had clos'd the door,
Its number announc'd, it seem'd like wit;
Which speaks to the matter, and speaks no more,
But leaves an impression like holy writ.
And I gaz'd on the clock, as the friend of man,
The index of reason, and warning voice;
Inviting to “number our days'” short span;
And those who regard alone rejoice.
The index of reason, and warning voice;
Inviting to “number our days'” short span;
And those who regard alone rejoice.
The pendulum's ticking arrests the ear
To win the eye to the number'd hour;
And the hands, ever moving within the sphere,
Point to the present, the all in our power.
And, lest we should slight the tale they tell,
Hark! the hammer awakes the bell;
Rousing our minds to redeem the past,
For the hour now living may be the last.
To win the eye to the number'd hour;
271
Point to the present, the all in our power.
And, lest we should slight the tale they tell,
Hark! the hammer awakes the bell;
Rousing our minds to redeem the past,
For the hour now living may be the last.
The night advanc'd and the light grew poor,
Slow in its wasting course, but sure;
(Eternal lesson is reason's aim)
The taper seem'd life, and death the flame;
And death with life is so entwin'd
That life feeds death, and death wastes life;
Yet death as the taper's flame is kind,
For it lights to repose from care and strife.
The taper it towers from the socket below,
But down to the socket the taper must go.
Slow in its wasting course, but sure;
(Eternal lesson is reason's aim)
The taper seem'd life, and death the flame;
And death with life is so entwin'd
That life feeds death, and death wastes life;
Yet death as the taper's flame is kind,
For it lights to repose from care and strife.
The taper it towers from the socket below,
But down to the socket the taper must go.
And I mus'd on death—and 'twere musing sweet
Could man and his conscience kindly meet—
And I mus'd on death, whose dart destroy'd
The hope of an heart left wearied and void.
Could man and his conscience kindly meet—
And I mus'd on death, whose dart destroy'd
The hope of an heart left wearied and void.
An heart there was, belov'd and loving;
Two hearts, the twining of true love
(Blended and blest, a sweet dream!) proving—
What heaven has join'd can mortal move?
Ah, no—so twin'd those hearts were ever,
Death only could the knot dissever:
And one it wing'd its way to where
No heart can enter with tainted core;
And the other remain'd to beat with care,
But the day shall come when there's care no more.
Two hearts, the twining of true love
272
What heaven has join'd can mortal move?
Ah, no—so twin'd those hearts were ever,
Death only could the knot dissever:
And one it wing'd its way to where
No heart can enter with tainted core;
And the other remain'd to beat with care,
But the day shall come when there's care no more.
A shepherd thus sung,
While a garland he hung
Of the cypress, wove
With the flow'r of love,
O'er a rustic tomb;
Where left was room
For one who might soon an inmate prove.
The wreath he hung,
And thus he sung:—
While a garland he hung
Of the cypress, wove
With the flow'r of love,
O'er a rustic tomb;
Where left was room
For one who might soon an inmate prove.
The wreath he hung,
And thus he sung:—
And I said it was sorrow time never could cure,
And I said it was grief I could never endure,
And I lay me down to weep;
When fancy, fatigued, all her phantasy stay'd,
The pillow grew soft where my head it was laid,
And sorrow resolv'd in sleep.
And I dreamt 'twas my true love who stood by my side;
They awoke me; and, O, she a second time died:
Ah! why so officious? why chase my delight?
My eyes op'd to day, but that day was like night.
And I said it was grief I could never endure,
And I lay me down to weep;
When fancy, fatigued, all her phantasy stay'd,
The pillow grew soft where my head it was laid,
And sorrow resolv'd in sleep.
273
They awoke me; and, O, she a second time died:
Ah! why so officious? why chase my delight?
My eyes op'd to day, but that day was like night.
And I said, as all-smiling she sat by my side,
And art thou return'd, my earth's heaven, my bride?
And she answer'd me with a kiss;
O, I trembled with extacy; round her I threw
Those arms which to her had been constant and true;
And I seem'd entwin'd with bliss.
And she to my fondness with kisses replied—
But they woke me and, O, she a second time died:
Ah, why so officious? now sleep I implore,
But, sleeping, I dream not and—she is no more!
And art thou return'd, my earth's heaven, my bride?
And she answer'd me with a kiss;
O, I trembled with extacy; round her I threw
Those arms which to her had been constant and true;
And I seem'd entwin'd with bliss.
And she to my fondness with kisses replied—
But they woke me and, O, she a second time died:
Ah, why so officious? now sleep I implore,
But, sleeping, I dream not and—she is no more!
Thus sung the shepherd, and around the grave
Young rose trees planted; and to each he gave
A name—Ah! why? at ev'ry tree appears
An infant mourner 'dewing it with tears;
Portraits of her to whom in sorrow he
Plac'd a memorial in each votive tree.
Young rose trees planted; and to each he gave
A name—Ah! why? at ev'ry tree appears
An infant mourner 'dewing it with tears;
Portraits of her to whom in sorrow he
Plac'd a memorial in each votive tree.
| Young Arthur | |