The Legend of St. Loy With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud |
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 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
Hour of Maturity! — whom Bards have hailed,
Sanguine of manhood's hope, though boyhood's failed —
Quit of constraint, we now begin to be;
Escaped dependance, feel that we are free
The world's our own — to win or lose — name,
Brilliant or dark — and each alike is fame!
But let me live, and die, without renown,
If Virtue's sanction make it not her own
O, let the visions of my youth, wherein
I revelled, as an Eden free of sin,
Dreaming of immortality, be void,
If the fond boon may never be enjoyed
But by the taste of the forbidden fruit; —
And be the serpent Hope for ever mute:
'Tis but Ambition in an angel-guise,
The bane of earth, a rebel to the skies!
— And that were a great sacrifice — for they
Have been my hearted solace — night and day;
And when I revelled in them, I did seem
The only being in the fairy dream,
Which was the Universe — and there, methought,
My mind held mastery, and its riches wrought
E'en to her own imaginative will,
And modelled the creation it did fill,
Fixing on but one orb her eagle ken,
Glory! — the crown of angels and of men!
But still of thee, O Virtue! have I sung,
And to thy praise mine early harp was strung.
Fancy had scarcely language, language force,
When from thy high and sempiternal source,
I dared the stream of numbers to deduce,
And weakly wrestled with the mighty Muse,
Upon her mountains, and beside her streams,
Vocal alike with the sublimest themes,
That did with harmony the spirit thrall,
Giving her strength, and charming me of all,
Yet what it captivated still inspired —
Weakly, but resolutely, and untired,
'Till she took pity on my youth extreme,
And bade me rest upon her heart, and dream
That I of her was well-beloved, and there
In a delicious slumber, and so clear
That every sense seemed perfect, and mine ear
Conversant with the music of the spot,
And my soul held communion, felt and thought,
And saw all objects as they were — (and she
Bending her bright blue eyes down upon me,
And her lips bathing mine, my brow, mine eyes,
With kisses made, and modulate of sighs) —
Lapped, I was happy as Endymion, when
Absorbed in Dian's love in Latmos' mystic glen!
And then she sang to me, e'en as I slept,
Sweet soul-deep songs, whose melancholy crept
Over my kindled spirit till it wept
Tears, such as seraphs shed, when they behold
A sight of pity melts their burning mould
To liquid sorrow, till themselves do ponder
Upon their nature's change in awe and wonder,
Then feel themselves more heavenly? Judge how I
Felt — kindled to such height of extacy! —
Sanguine of manhood's hope, though boyhood's failed —
Quit of constraint, we now begin to be;
Escaped dependance, feel that we are free
The world's our own — to win or lose — name,
Brilliant or dark — and each alike is fame!
But let me live, and die, without renown,
If Virtue's sanction make it not her own
205
I revelled, as an Eden free of sin,
Dreaming of immortality, be void,
If the fond boon may never be enjoyed
But by the taste of the forbidden fruit; —
And be the serpent Hope for ever mute:
'Tis but Ambition in an angel-guise,
The bane of earth, a rebel to the skies!
— And that were a great sacrifice — for they
Have been my hearted solace — night and day;
And when I revelled in them, I did seem
The only being in the fairy dream,
Which was the Universe — and there, methought,
My mind held mastery, and its riches wrought
E'en to her own imaginative will,
And modelled the creation it did fill,
Fixing on but one orb her eagle ken,
Glory! — the crown of angels and of men!
But still of thee, O Virtue! have I sung,
And to thy praise mine early harp was strung.
206
When from thy high and sempiternal source,
I dared the stream of numbers to deduce,
And weakly wrestled with the mighty Muse,
Upon her mountains, and beside her streams,
Vocal alike with the sublimest themes,
That did with harmony the spirit thrall,
Giving her strength, and charming me of all,
Yet what it captivated still inspired —
Weakly, but resolutely, and untired,
'Till she took pity on my youth extreme,
And bade me rest upon her heart, and dream
That I of her was well-beloved, and there
In a delicious slumber, and so clear
That every sense seemed perfect, and mine ear
Conversant with the music of the spot,
And my soul held communion, felt and thought,
And saw all objects as they were — (and she
Bending her bright blue eyes down upon me,
And her lips bathing mine, my brow, mine eyes,
With kisses made, and modulate of sighs) —
Lapped, I was happy as Endymion, when
Absorbed in Dian's love in Latmos' mystic glen!
207
Sweet soul-deep songs, whose melancholy crept
Over my kindled spirit till it wept
Tears, such as seraphs shed, when they behold
A sight of pity melts their burning mould
To liquid sorrow, till themselves do ponder
Upon their nature's change in awe and wonder,
Then feel themselves more heavenly? Judge how I
Felt — kindled to such height of extacy! —
Then from such visions waked and so inspired,
I seized the Harp that next me hung, and fired
The tragic chords with one wild whirlwind sound,
Though for awhile the immortal Sister frowned,
Who swayed that instrument, Melpomene;
Twas but to prove what daring was in me —
And then she smiled — and with a fiercer note,
Encouraged thus, and fiercer still, I smote
The tragic chords — and still she smiled, and I
Charmed from the grave of an old history
The tale of Periander , and the rage
Of many passions thundered o'er the stage;
And then, each awful pause between, I turned
To the old theme — Astrea's Altar burned
With holy incense — then I seized again
The tragic Harp, and waked a different strain.
Ossian flashed on me — Lora's field arose,
Upon the shadowy scene, and many woes,
Aldo and Lorma loved; and eke a Maid
Was fashioned forth by Fancy's second aid. —
Those numbers ceased; and in the interim
Of silence, full of Fancy, nothing dim,
I paid my vows to Virtue, and her shrine
Harmonized with the song she made divine.
And, for the time her service ended, then
I mused apart, or mingled among men,
Howe'er reluctantly, and with a sigh
That came from the deep heart's intensity,
Murmured a lover's farewell, just to say,
With what a pang I tore myself away.
And often as I wandered, would an air
Of exquisite unearthliness, — so clear,
So sweet, and fine withall, “that nothing dwelt
“'Twixt it and silence;” yet so deeply felt,
That the soul knew it a reality,—
Come, like a dear and lingering memory,
Of the delightful moments with the Muse
Spent in mysterious dalliance; — and diffuse
The breathings of her spirit upon mine,
Till the world disappeared, and I became divine!
I seized the Harp that next me hung, and fired
The tragic chords with one wild whirlwind sound,
Though for awhile the immortal Sister frowned,
Who swayed that instrument, Melpomene;
Twas but to prove what daring was in me —
And then she smiled — and with a fiercer note,
Encouraged thus, and fiercer still, I smote
The tragic chords — and still she smiled, and I
Charmed from the grave of an old history
The tale of Periander , and the rage
Of many passions thundered o'er the stage;
208
To the old theme — Astrea's Altar burned
With holy incense — then I seized again
The tragic Harp, and waked a different strain.
Ossian flashed on me — Lora's field arose,
Upon the shadowy scene, and many woes,
Aldo and Lorma loved; and eke a Maid
Was fashioned forth by Fancy's second aid. —
Those numbers ceased; and in the interim
Of silence, full of Fancy, nothing dim,
I paid my vows to Virtue, and her shrine
Harmonized with the song she made divine.
And, for the time her service ended, then
I mused apart, or mingled among men,
Howe'er reluctantly, and with a sigh
That came from the deep heart's intensity,
Murmured a lover's farewell, just to say,
With what a pang I tore myself away.
And often as I wandered, would an air
Of exquisite unearthliness, — so clear,
So sweet, and fine withall, “that nothing dwelt
209
That the soul knew it a reality,—
Come, like a dear and lingering memory,
Of the delightful moments with the Muse
Spent in mysterious dalliance; — and diffuse
The breathings of her spirit upon mine,
Till the world disappeared, and I became divine!
This refers to an unpublished Poem of the Author, written at different intervals between the age of 14 and 20, and extending to about 10,000 lines.
| The Legend of St. Loy | |