The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
Stranger.
Who art thou, form of loveliness,
With light blue eye and silken tress,
Wing like the eagle's spread for flight,
Foot of wandering, and brow of light?
Spirit.
Stranger.
Soft breasted Spirit! peace and love
Go with thee to thy dwelling above,
Wherever thy rose-strewn way thou wingest,
Wherever the breath of gladness thou bringest.
But, lo! a fair sister of beauty is nigh,
And her form wears the tint of an evening sky
When the sun throws off his robe of splendour,
When his smile is soft and his shining tender.
On her brow the rose and the myrtle-wreath meet,
And the pinions of a dove spread from her feet;
Her cheeks are all bloom and her eyes all brightness,
And a lyre she is sweeping with fingers of lightness.
Spirit
(sings).
By the first rose of spring, when its fragrance is sweetest,
By the nightingale's song, when her coming is fleetest,
By the tender light of the evening beam,
By the whispering breeze and flowing stream,
By the stars that nightly shine over the sea,
Mortal! I charge thee, listen to me!
I come from a lovely and blessed place,
Where birds never die and leaves never fall,
Where the winds steal on and leave no trace,
And a rainbow light melts over all.
I come, and the flowers spring fresher around,
And wherever I tread it is magical ground;—
I watch where the blossoms of harmony swell,
And the soul of the minstrel I charm with a spell;
Wherever he wanders, I am hovering by,
At the first of the morn, and when evening is nigh,
To the mood of his spirit, the night is not dim,
For I brighten the stars of the heaven for him;
Though mantled in clouds, the morning is sweet,
For I strew with fair flowers the path of his feet,—
O'er the curl of the fountain, the foam of the sea,
The bloom of the field, and the leaf of the tree,
O'er the clouds that roll on with the storm in its breast,
And the mist that comes down on the mountain to rest,
O'er the raindrop of morn, and the evening tear,
My magic I breathe, and to him they are dear!
There are hearts where I dwell, and bright eyes where I shine,
There are visions I form, and fair chaplets I twine.
In the ebb and the flood,
From the birth to the tomb,
From the myrtle's first bud
To the laurel in bloom,
I watch o'er the children of Poetry's love
While their bosoms are glowing with flame from above.
But the flowers are opening to welcome the day.
Stranger mortal—away! away!
Stranger.
Spirit.
Who art thou, form of loveliness,
With light blue eye and silken tress,
Wing like the eagle's spread for flight,
Foot of wandering, and brow of light?
Spirit.
I am a daughter of the air,
And the lands of the South are given to my care,
I slept until the morning's birth,
My pillow a cloud, and my couch the earth;
But I was call'd up from my rest,
To breathe upon a warrior's breast,
Who was fleeting away on the battle-plain,
And I won him back to life again!
Then I wav'd my pinions and sought a bower,
Where, teeming with fragrance, there budded a flower.
I hovered around and sigh'd o'er its brow,
Till it burst into life, and is flourishing now.
I was sent to the bed of a dying man,
And slow in his veins the life-blood ran,—
I fanned with my wings the fever of death,
And bare away gently his parting breath.
I stole to a place where a maiden was weeping,
And long had her heart a sad vigil been keeping,
But true were her vows though cherish'd in grief,
And her tear on my wing was as dew to the leaf;
A sigh full of hope I breathed on her bosom,
And her cheek bloomed afresh like a rain-wash'd blossom!
A bark was sailing and a lover it bare
To one who was faithful, and chaste, and fair:
I filled the sail, and it swiftly rode on,
Till the place of love and hope was won.
Stranger! many deeds have I done,
With the dawn, and the noon, and the fall of the sun.
The sunset is gone, and the evening advances,
And moonbeams are throwing their loveliest glances;
And now in the dewdrops I freshen my limbs,
And fly where the air-sylphs are chanting their hymns;
I perfume my wings with the breath of the rose,
And the sigh of the violet where sweetest it grows.
Then light in my gladness I wanton away,
Where soft eyes are shining with love in their ray;
I play with each ringlet that curls o'er her brow,
And in gentleness murmur my whispering vow,—
But the stars are come forth in their chariots of blue,
And I mount up to greet them,—
And the lands of the South are given to my care,
I slept until the morning's birth,
My pillow a cloud, and my couch the earth;
But I was call'd up from my rest,
To breathe upon a warrior's breast,
Who was fleeting away on the battle-plain,
And I won him back to life again!
Then I wav'd my pinions and sought a bower,
Where, teeming with fragrance, there budded a flower.
I hovered around and sigh'd o'er its brow,
Till it burst into life, and is flourishing now.
233
And slow in his veins the life-blood ran,—
I fanned with my wings the fever of death,
And bare away gently his parting breath.
I stole to a place where a maiden was weeping,
And long had her heart a sad vigil been keeping,
But true were her vows though cherish'd in grief,
And her tear on my wing was as dew to the leaf;
A sigh full of hope I breathed on her bosom,
And her cheek bloomed afresh like a rain-wash'd blossom!
A bark was sailing and a lover it bare
To one who was faithful, and chaste, and fair:
I filled the sail, and it swiftly rode on,
Till the place of love and hope was won.
Stranger! many deeds have I done,
With the dawn, and the noon, and the fall of the sun.
The sunset is gone, and the evening advances,
And moonbeams are throwing their loveliest glances;
And now in the dewdrops I freshen my limbs,
And fly where the air-sylphs are chanting their hymns;
I perfume my wings with the breath of the rose,
And the sigh of the violet where sweetest it grows.
Then light in my gladness I wanton away,
Where soft eyes are shining with love in their ray;
I play with each ringlet that curls o'er her brow,
And in gentleness murmur my whispering vow,—
But the stars are come forth in their chariots of blue,
And I mount up to greet them,—
Stranger, adieu!
234
Soft breasted Spirit! peace and love
Go with thee to thy dwelling above,
Wherever thy rose-strewn way thou wingest,
Wherever the breath of gladness thou bringest.
But, lo! a fair sister of beauty is nigh,
And her form wears the tint of an evening sky
When the sun throws off his robe of splendour,
When his smile is soft and his shining tender.
On her brow the rose and the myrtle-wreath meet,
And the pinions of a dove spread from her feet;
Her cheeks are all bloom and her eyes all brightness,
And a lyre she is sweeping with fingers of lightness.
Spirit
(sings).
By the first rose of spring, when its fragrance is sweetest,
By the nightingale's song, when her coming is fleetest,
By the tender light of the evening beam,
By the whispering breeze and flowing stream,
By the stars that nightly shine over the sea,
Mortal! I charge thee, listen to me!
I come from a lovely and blessed place,
Where birds never die and leaves never fall,
Where the winds steal on and leave no trace,
And a rainbow light melts over all.
I come, and the flowers spring fresher around,
And wherever I tread it is magical ground;—
I watch where the blossoms of harmony swell,
And the soul of the minstrel I charm with a spell;
235
At the first of the morn, and when evening is nigh,
To the mood of his spirit, the night is not dim,
For I brighten the stars of the heaven for him;
Though mantled in clouds, the morning is sweet,
For I strew with fair flowers the path of his feet,—
O'er the curl of the fountain, the foam of the sea,
The bloom of the field, and the leaf of the tree,
O'er the clouds that roll on with the storm in its breast,
And the mist that comes down on the mountain to rest,
O'er the raindrop of morn, and the evening tear,
My magic I breathe, and to him they are dear!
There are hearts where I dwell, and bright eyes where I shine,
There are visions I form, and fair chaplets I twine.
In the ebb and the flood,
From the birth to the tomb,
From the myrtle's first bud
To the laurel in bloom,
I watch o'er the children of Poetry's love
While their bosoms are glowing with flame from above.
But the flowers are opening to welcome the day.
Stranger mortal—away! away!
Stranger.
There's a chain that is golden entwined round my heart,
It is linked by delight—and I may not depart
Though sorrow befell me I would not away,
While visions so sweet, so beautiful, stay.
Another is with me—
It is linked by delight—and I may not depart
236
While visions so sweet, so beautiful, stay.
Another is with me—
And who art thou,
With a milk-white bird on thy Angel brow,
Blooming thy cheek, though tearful thine eye,
Mingling the smile on thy lip with a sigh?
With a milk-white bird on thy Angel brow,
Blooming thy cheek, though tearful thine eye,
Mingling the smile on thy lip with a sigh?
Spirit.
Hast thou a sorrow?—come, tell it to me,
Have I a comfort?—thine it shall be,—
I seek where the tears of the mourner are flowing,
And breathe on his brow till its throbbing is calm;
I steal where the heart of the chastened is glowing,
And as rain to the flower my smile is his balm.
Where the exile is wandering my pinions are nigh,
Where the pilgrim is weary, to soothe him am I.
I whisper them tales of the home of their youth,
Of the hearts that are fond, and the prayers that are truth.
I fly where the sailor-boy watches aloft,
And though storms gather round him his slumbers are soft.
Then I bear his young spirit away on my wings,
Where the thrush that he lov'd in his childhood still sings;
Where the woodbine is 'twining its wreaths on the wall,
And dear ones again on their wanderer call;—
There is one bending o'er him whose lip cannot speak,
And the tear of affection falls warm on his cheek.
There is one standing near him with words in her eye,
And he seeks the embrace which she may not deny;—
But the sea-bird sails past—and shrill is her scream,
And in tears he awakens, but blesses his dream.
The sigh of the lonely—the teardrop of pain,
Where hope is wasted, and prayers are vain,—
The lips that are pale, the cheeks that are wan,
Where joy is bitter—and comfort is gone,—
The flowers that fade where the spring-blight is flying,
The leaves that are falling, the birds that are dying,
The blasted sapling, the withering tree,
Are sacred to Pity, and cherished by me.
Peace to thee, peace!
Have I a comfort?—thine it shall be,—
I seek where the tears of the mourner are flowing,
And breathe on his brow till its throbbing is calm;
I steal where the heart of the chastened is glowing,
And as rain to the flower my smile is his balm.
Where the exile is wandering my pinions are nigh,
Where the pilgrim is weary, to soothe him am I.
I whisper them tales of the home of their youth,
Of the hearts that are fond, and the prayers that are truth.
I fly where the sailor-boy watches aloft,
And though storms gather round him his slumbers are soft.
Then I bear his young spirit away on my wings,
Where the thrush that he lov'd in his childhood still sings;
Where the woodbine is 'twining its wreaths on the wall,
And dear ones again on their wanderer call;—
There is one bending o'er him whose lip cannot speak,
And the tear of affection falls warm on his cheek.
237
And he seeks the embrace which she may not deny;—
But the sea-bird sails past—and shrill is her scream,
And in tears he awakens, but blesses his dream.
The sigh of the lonely—the teardrop of pain,
Where hope is wasted, and prayers are vain,—
The lips that are pale, the cheeks that are wan,
Where joy is bitter—and comfort is gone,—
The flowers that fade where the spring-blight is flying,
The leaves that are falling, the birds that are dying,
The blasted sapling, the withering tree,
Are sacred to Pity, and cherished by me.
Peace to thee, peace!
I have yet far to go;
There are streams on the earth and their fountain is woe:
There are hearts that are breaking, and wounds none can bind,
There are brows that are drooping, and balm I must find.
There are streams on the earth and their fountain is woe:
There are hearts that are breaking, and wounds none can bind,
There are brows that are drooping, and balm I must find.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |