Madmoments: or First Verseattempts By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison |
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 | Madmoments: or First Verseattempts |  |
Allmother Earth, whose child I am, and ye
Spirits that track the earthroundgirdingbelt
Of Oceanwaves, which grasp this bounded World,
As Faith would grasp Eternity; and ye
That wake sweet Echo on the printless sands,
Which have been, and may be again, the shores
Of mighty Empires, unto which the wave's
Shipcradling bosom wafts in foamy scorn
The conquestwingëd Fleets, that proudly bear
The spoils of Nations, oft stormstrewn by thee,
Thou azurebrowed and timeunchangëd Main,
When at the Eternal's Voice thou puttest forth
Thy Might, and scarce a Bubble marks their Grave.
These Shores, nightmantled, which are now all left,
A Playground unto you and yours— and ye,
That where the Rainbow rests do love to quaff
The Dewwine fresh from out the Flowercups,
One Drop of which mixed with the Wildbee's mead,
'Gives him a summertide of Bliss; and ye
Ye hilltophaunting Nymphs, ye seacave Fays,
That make the Echos hoarse with answering,
And ye, the mossy Fountainguardians,
That woo bright Moombeams to your chosen spring,
To fresh the wave for favoured Poetslip,
Ye too, Oakelves, Woodfays, and Wildheathsprites,
That fright the Traveller with harmless Pranks;
And ye that on the moonkissed Midnightwave
Dance to its soullike Motion with young Glee;
Airsprites, that on the Setsunsdownslopebeam,
Chace the goldfeathered Foambirds, as they dip
Their snowplumed Wings amid the seething brine,
Less white than they! and ye, wavecradled tribes,
Innumerous as motes, that down the West
Float in the glorious suntrack as he sinks,
Anthemed by spherematemusic, to far worlds
Lightbearing orb: tuning the harmonies
Of Worlds, that starrëd round his Gloryzone,
Move at his voice and bidding, and bear on
The Seasons and their Changes to far Lands,
With Interchange of good and ill, of light
And darkness; weaving on their mystic course
The manymeshëd fatewoof: the birthhour
Of kingdoms, framed from oldworld Fragments, and
The Fall of Thrones, and Darkening of suns
And systems, thro' immeasurable space!
Ye Spirits, one and all, ye I invoke,
With voice of adoration: for with ye
The Soul hath its communion; ye bring
To the worldwearied spirit thoughts of peace,
And tidings of a faroff Home, of peace,
Beneath these Surfacechanges, calm and deep,
Subsisting in the universal Heart
Of which our own Heart is a pulse, tho' oft
It beat with feverish wishes and vain Fears,
Discordant from its Source and End; oh yes!
Spirits as ye, tho' cooped in this Clayhouse,
We are as thoughtunlimited as ye,
Tho' spacebound far on this side of our hopes;
And in such viewless Intercourse we have
Yearnings, Heartyearnings, to be e'en as ye,
Free o' the Air, Earth, Ocean, as that Thought
Which is undying in us; in whose Might,
Tho' not yet freed, we still can mix with ye,
And to the Mindseye body forth your shapes,
Allviewless tho' ye be: for spirit yearns
Tow'rds Spirit, and are we not Spirits too?
Ye are but parts as we are even now
Of that allseeing, wise Intelligence,
Unborn, Undying, Allencompassing,
Coliving wth each living thing wherein
A Soulspark kindles, or a hope is felt,
For Something better than the passing shows
Of this vain Timescene, which is but a Dream,
Tho' it seem as if real, for still we sleep!
Spirits that track the earthroundgirdingbelt
Of Oceanwaves, which grasp this bounded World,
As Faith would grasp Eternity; and ye
That wake sweet Echo on the printless sands,
Which have been, and may be again, the shores
Of mighty Empires, unto which the wave's
Shipcradling bosom wafts in foamy scorn
The conquestwingëd Fleets, that proudly bear
The spoils of Nations, oft stormstrewn by thee,
Thou azurebrowed and timeunchangëd Main,
When at the Eternal's Voice thou puttest forth
Thy Might, and scarce a Bubble marks their Grave.
These Shores, nightmantled, which are now all left,
A Playground unto you and yours— and ye,
That where the Rainbow rests do love to quaff
The Dewwine fresh from out the Flowercups,
One Drop of which mixed with the Wildbee's mead,
'Gives him a summertide of Bliss; and ye
Ye hilltophaunting Nymphs, ye seacave Fays,
That make the Echos hoarse with answering,
And ye, the mossy Fountainguardians,
139
To fresh the wave for favoured Poetslip,
Ye too, Oakelves, Woodfays, and Wildheathsprites,
That fright the Traveller with harmless Pranks;
And ye that on the moonkissed Midnightwave
Dance to its soullike Motion with young Glee;
Airsprites, that on the Setsunsdownslopebeam,
Chace the goldfeathered Foambirds, as they dip
Their snowplumed Wings amid the seething brine,
Less white than they! and ye, wavecradled tribes,
Innumerous as motes, that down the West
Float in the glorious suntrack as he sinks,
Anthemed by spherematemusic, to far worlds
Lightbearing orb: tuning the harmonies
Of Worlds, that starrëd round his Gloryzone,
Move at his voice and bidding, and bear on
The Seasons and their Changes to far Lands,
With Interchange of good and ill, of light
And darkness; weaving on their mystic course
The manymeshëd fatewoof: the birthhour
Of kingdoms, framed from oldworld Fragments, and
The Fall of Thrones, and Darkening of suns
And systems, thro' immeasurable space!
Ye Spirits, one and all, ye I invoke,
With voice of adoration: for with ye
The Soul hath its communion; ye bring
To the worldwearied spirit thoughts of peace,
And tidings of a faroff Home, of peace,
Beneath these Surfacechanges, calm and deep,
Subsisting in the universal Heart
Of which our own Heart is a pulse, tho' oft
It beat with feverish wishes and vain Fears,
Discordant from its Source and End; oh yes!
Spirits as ye, tho' cooped in this Clayhouse,
We are as thoughtunlimited as ye,
Tho' spacebound far on this side of our hopes;
140
Yearnings, Heartyearnings, to be e'en as ye,
Free o' the Air, Earth, Ocean, as that Thought
Which is undying in us; in whose Might,
Tho' not yet freed, we still can mix with ye,
And to the Mindseye body forth your shapes,
Allviewless tho' ye be: for spirit yearns
Tow'rds Spirit, and are we not Spirits too?
Ye are but parts as we are even now
Of that allseeing, wise Intelligence,
Unborn, Undying, Allencompassing,
Coliving wth each living thing wherein
A Soulspark kindles, or a hope is felt,
For Something better than the passing shows
Of this vain Timescene, which is but a Dream,
Tho' it seem as if real, for still we sleep!
| Madmoments: or First Verseattempts | |