 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
VIII.
Now through the prismy dews we moved along,
Past the dark broom, and by the forest steep,
Till far away, broad sycamores among,
A snow-white cottage lit the foliage deep.
In spiral wreaths the smoke ascended high,
And winded softly through morn's ruby light;
How sweet a place,—how calm,—to live and die
Enwrapt in visions of poetic might!
Past the dark broom, and by the forest steep,
12
A snow-white cottage lit the foliage deep.
In spiral wreaths the smoke ascended high,
And winded softly through morn's ruby light;
How sweet a place,—how calm,—to live and die
Enwrapt in visions of poetic might!
Sudden the youth!—
“O bright, bright skies! O sunshine ever fair!
How often have ye darken'd since I knew
What glorious visitations died in air,
Since here the flower most loved, most cherish'd, grew?
The honey-bees' sweet work-song fill'd my soul
Soft from those sycamores in ancient day;
And o'er my waken'd spirit oft would roll,
Even as an angel's song, the blackbird's lay.
And she would sing, whose voice was sweeter far
Than all the birds that warble on the bough,
Than all the marvels of each sphered star,—
Where, where breathe on those heavenly murmurs now?
I wont to feel a joyous bounding here—
Here, at the heart,—but that hath fled away;
And now the fiend Remorse, the spectre Fear,
Watch ceaselessly the portals night and day.
A wither'd tree, the youngest in the grove,
Leafless and lost, the rest in foliage strong;
Where never come the balmy winds of love,
Sunlight, nor fruitage, nor the forest song.
“Wilt thou hear more? Long, long ago,
A beauteous phantom did appear:
When first she came I scarcely know,
So swiftly flew each happy year.
“O bright, bright skies! O sunshine ever fair!
How often have ye darken'd since I knew
What glorious visitations died in air,
Since here the flower most loved, most cherish'd, grew?
The honey-bees' sweet work-song fill'd my soul
Soft from those sycamores in ancient day;
And o'er my waken'd spirit oft would roll,
Even as an angel's song, the blackbird's lay.
And she would sing, whose voice was sweeter far
Than all the birds that warble on the bough,
Than all the marvels of each sphered star,—
Where, where breathe on those heavenly murmurs now?
I wont to feel a joyous bounding here—
Here, at the heart,—but that hath fled away;
And now the fiend Remorse, the spectre Fear,
Watch ceaselessly the portals night and day.
A wither'd tree, the youngest in the grove,
Leafless and lost, the rest in foliage strong;
Where never come the balmy winds of love,
Sunlight, nor fruitage, nor the forest song.
13
A beauteous phantom did appear:
When first she came I scarcely know,
So swiftly flew each happy year.
I ne'er again may hope to feel
Those joys, those raptures of the soul;
Nor e'er in human words reveal
The bondage of her sweet control.
To hear her voice, to watch her eyes,
To listen when her footsteps came,—
O nought beneath yon blessed skies
Could match the maid I may not name!
Not angels, when with quivering lip
They list the music of the spheres,
Such charms could boast, such pleasures sip,
As broke entranced upon mine ears:
So sweet the virgin dreams of love—
So fair the azure robes of truth,—
Like firstling blossoms from above,
And pure as heaven, the hopes of youth!
Those joys, those raptures of the soul;
Nor e'er in human words reveal
The bondage of her sweet control.
To hear her voice, to watch her eyes,
To listen when her footsteps came,—
O nought beneath yon blessed skies
Could match the maid I may not name!
Not angels, when with quivering lip
They list the music of the spheres,
Such charms could boast, such pleasures sip,
As broke entranced upon mine ears:
So sweet the virgin dreams of love—
So fair the azure robes of truth,—
Like firstling blossoms from above,
And pure as heaven, the hopes of youth!
“She knew all birds by each peculiar note—
Each fragrant wild-flower, each particular hue;
And the dear music warbling in her throat,
Fix'd in my beating heart the knowledge true.
Each grot remote, each woodland bower we knew,
Each waterfall rejoicing in the breeze,—
Each change of Summer, each delightful hue
Of Autumn's twilight, and the forest trees.
Her brow was as a tablet, rich and fair,
Whereon were thoughts divine, like garlands wove;
Her eyes, like summer springs, were bright and clear,
And her sweet lips were musical with love!
Her hair, like clouds of night, descended low—
Her neck like snow beneath a raven's wing;
Whilst grace and elegance, combined to throw
Angelic beauty on this blessed thing!
Her dimpled cheek the rapture of a dream;
Her foot's fine curve might match Diana's bow;
Her voice, as when, at night, the silver stream
Of Derwent's waves arrest the moonbeam's glow!
Gazing on her, I saw no more
The splendours of the earth and sky;
The waves fell voiceless on the shore—
The winds swept lyreless by.
Around her beauteous breast, the snow-god placed
The holiest veil that decks his inner shrine;
O'er all her limbs, devotional love had traced
Spiritual brightness, tenderness divine—
As vestal, loved by godhead, did she shine!
Each fragrant wild-flower, each particular hue;
And the dear music warbling in her throat,
Fix'd in my beating heart the knowledge true.
Each grot remote, each woodland bower we knew,
Each waterfall rejoicing in the breeze,—
Each change of Summer, each delightful hue
Of Autumn's twilight, and the forest trees.
14
Whereon were thoughts divine, like garlands wove;
Her eyes, like summer springs, were bright and clear,
And her sweet lips were musical with love!
Her hair, like clouds of night, descended low—
Her neck like snow beneath a raven's wing;
Whilst grace and elegance, combined to throw
Angelic beauty on this blessed thing!
Her dimpled cheek the rapture of a dream;
Her foot's fine curve might match Diana's bow;
Her voice, as when, at night, the silver stream
Of Derwent's waves arrest the moonbeam's glow!
Gazing on her, I saw no more
The splendours of the earth and sky;
The waves fell voiceless on the shore—
The winds swept lyreless by.
Around her beauteous breast, the snow-god placed
The holiest veil that decks his inner shrine;
O'er all her limbs, devotional love had traced
Spiritual brightness, tenderness divine—
As vestal, loved by godhead, did she shine!
| The bard, and minor poems | |