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 |  |
The voice of the
Fourth Spirit
is heard.
Thou see'st me not, mortal, and yet I am nigh,
Where flowers spring around thee, and stars are on high.
I burst into life from the cradle of day,
And shine where the waters steal evening away;
Where the rose is unfolding I sleep on its leaves,
And smile where the lily in loneliness grieves,—
To the rock that by sea-waves of summer is kiss'd,
To the hill when the autumn hath robed it in mist,
I come in the pride of my loveliest smile,
And the breath of the south-wind plays round me the while.
I rest on the billow that curls from the deep,
Till its breast, like an infant, is murmur'd asleep:
By the wanderer then I am seen from afar,
My robe is a moonbeam, my crown is a star.
I glide o'er the waters with thought-speeding feet,
My paths they are lovely, my smiles they are sweet;
I fly to the earth on the pinions of spring,
With life in my bosom, with bloom in my wing,
Where nature is fairest my footsteps have been,
Where bowers are fruitful, where valleys are green;
Stranger, there's not a lovely hue,
Where summer flowers shine,
There's not a charm thine eye can view,
That is not mine,—
I was sent with the sun, from my birthplace above,
The spirit of Beauty, the chosen of Love!
Stranger.
Farewell to thee, angel of sweetness, farewell!
There's a charm in thy presence—thy voice is a spell.
It will live in my memory for many a year,
At the opening of spring, and when summer is near,
And when autumn is breathing her sighs to the gale,
The lip of wild Fancy shall murmur thy tale.
But there is one stealing now on my sight,
Like a mellow'd ray of heaven's own light,
Robed in the cloud of a rainless sky,
A blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye,
A chaplet of lilies is wreath'd in her tresses,
And she plays with the wind like a hawk from her jesses.
Spirit.
I may not come near thee, thou hast tasted of sin,
My path will not be where thy footsteps have been,
I may not come down where thou breathest the air,
Lest I sully my robe with the guilt that is there.
Mortal of sorrow, thou know'st me not now,
Yet the time it hath been when I dwelt on thy brow,
When thy lips to the bosom of Innocence clung,
And her's were the accents that flowed from thy tongue.
I dwell in a valley where man never trod,
Where daisies and snowdrops are spangling the sod.
There's a stream flowing through with its silvery wave,
And sunlight the purest the sky ever gave,
There are lambs sporting onward to drink of that stream,
And turtle-doves spreading their wings to that beam
There are eyes full of love which all passionless shine,
On the babes who come hither while yet they are mine.
The sighs that are sinless float there from the earth,
And the whispering hope that is pure in its birth,
They come, and the breeze bears them gently along,
Till they melt into music, and sweet is their song!
It speaks of the vows that for ever endure,
The hearts that are changeless—the love that is pure;
They come in their sweetness, and steal through the air
To my fostering bosom, and nestle them there.—
Stranger! Stranger! would'st thou seek
Where my earthly dwelling is won?
I bloom in childhood's rubied cheek,
Mellowing to affection's sun;
My home is the guileless lip of youth,
The eye, pure as light from above,
The smile of Beauty pledging her truth,
The painless sigh, whose spirit is love.
They are mine—and oh! that they never would cease,
In my bower of gladness to whisper me peace,
But they fly from the bosom that nursed them in vain,
And their songs are but sorrow, their murmurs but pain.
Fare thee well! for the light of the morning is near,
For thy sins, child of darkness, I leave thee my tear.
Thou see'st me not, mortal, and yet I am nigh,
Where flowers spring around thee, and stars are on high.
I burst into life from the cradle of day,
And shine where the waters steal evening away;
Where the rose is unfolding I sleep on its leaves,
And smile where the lily in loneliness grieves,—
To the rock that by sea-waves of summer is kiss'd,
To the hill when the autumn hath robed it in mist,
238
And the breath of the south-wind plays round me the while.
I rest on the billow that curls from the deep,
Till its breast, like an infant, is murmur'd asleep:
By the wanderer then I am seen from afar,
My robe is a moonbeam, my crown is a star.
I glide o'er the waters with thought-speeding feet,
My paths they are lovely, my smiles they are sweet;
I fly to the earth on the pinions of spring,
With life in my bosom, with bloom in my wing,
Where nature is fairest my footsteps have been,
Where bowers are fruitful, where valleys are green;
Stranger, there's not a lovely hue,
Where summer flowers shine,
There's not a charm thine eye can view,
That is not mine,—
I was sent with the sun, from my birthplace above,
The spirit of Beauty, the chosen of Love!
Stranger.
Farewell to thee, angel of sweetness, farewell!
There's a charm in thy presence—thy voice is a spell.
It will live in my memory for many a year,
At the opening of spring, and when summer is near,
And when autumn is breathing her sighs to the gale,
The lip of wild Fancy shall murmur thy tale.
But there is one stealing now on my sight,
Like a mellow'd ray of heaven's own light,
Robed in the cloud of a rainless sky,
A blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye,
239
And she plays with the wind like a hawk from her jesses.
Spirit.
I may not come near thee, thou hast tasted of sin,
My path will not be where thy footsteps have been,
I may not come down where thou breathest the air,
Lest I sully my robe with the guilt that is there.
Mortal of sorrow, thou know'st me not now,
Yet the time it hath been when I dwelt on thy brow,
When thy lips to the bosom of Innocence clung,
And her's were the accents that flowed from thy tongue.
I dwell in a valley where man never trod,
Where daisies and snowdrops are spangling the sod.
There's a stream flowing through with its silvery wave,
And sunlight the purest the sky ever gave,
There are lambs sporting onward to drink of that stream,
And turtle-doves spreading their wings to that beam
There are eyes full of love which all passionless shine,
On the babes who come hither while yet they are mine.
The sighs that are sinless float there from the earth,
And the whispering hope that is pure in its birth,
They come, and the breeze bears them gently along,
Till they melt into music, and sweet is their song!
It speaks of the vows that for ever endure,
The hearts that are changeless—the love that is pure;
240
To my fostering bosom, and nestle them there.—
Stranger! Stranger! would'st thou seek
Where my earthly dwelling is won?
I bloom in childhood's rubied cheek,
Mellowing to affection's sun;
My home is the guileless lip of youth,
The eye, pure as light from above,
The smile of Beauty pledging her truth,
The painless sigh, whose spirit is love.
They are mine—and oh! that they never would cease,
In my bower of gladness to whisper me peace,
But they fly from the bosom that nursed them in vain,
And their songs are but sorrow, their murmurs but pain.
Fare thee well! for the light of the morning is near,
For thy sins, child of darkness, I leave thee my tear.
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |