THE
Grave of the Bard
Written August 1818.
“Depart on thy wings, O Wind! thou canst not disturb the
rest of the Bard. The night is long, but his eyes are heavy.
Depart, thou rustling blast.”
Ossian — on himself.
“Berrathon.”
Upon the holy domes of God
The moonlight sweet and lovely fell,
And on the flowery turf it glowed
Of a meek Poet's narrow cell.
There, 'gainst the arching cypress trees,
Reclined a kindred soul — alone,
Who loved to hear the wild night-breeze
Whistle through leaves an airy moan.
And oft his Harp, that hung on high,
Answered the kisses of the gale,
With such a sad and long-drawn sigh,
As almost told the tender tale.
The musing Friend renewed his grief,
And all the Dead rushed on his mind;
Then from his Harp he sought relief,
And poured these numbers undesigned:
Dear Son of Fancy! fare thee well!
Be thine abode in Heaven blest,
Peace be within thy narrow cell,
And undisturbed thy shrouded rest!
Thou lovedst to see Aurora's blush;
The mist upcurling from the stream;
The dews impearl tree, floweret, bush —
Then muse in rapt ideal dream!
To contemplate these gems of night;
To gaze the meteor's vagrant glare;
And in the nightingale delight,
With thrilling breast and blissful tear!
The Fair — the Wonderful — the Wild —
The Dread — the Grand — thy soul confessed;
Thou wert a true Poetic Child,
And with an eagle spirit blessed!
But yet that spirit was too strong
For the weak frame which held her flight,
And strained its powers too oft and long,
Stretched forward to aërial height.
Thus poised between the two extremes
Of Matter and of Spirit wrought,
Too weak to drink the solar beams,
For earth, too much of subtle Thought;
Ethereal Essence! Spark of Heaven!
The Lightning shot into the soul!
Whose shocks electric, hourly given,
Prey on the life, and wear the whole.
Yet the Sun's glory he inhaled,
And stretched his soul beyond his strength,
Till the worn threads of being failed,
Rare, and refined, and burst at length.
Around thy grave shall fairies meet,
And youths and maids who loved thy song,
And Fancy scatter every sweet,
And Pity plain her dirge along!
Dear Son of Fancy! fare thee well!
Be thine abode in Heaven blest,
Peace be within thy narrow cell,
And undisturbed thy shrouded rest!
Versification of the Prose Part of Satan's Speech, from the
“Christiad” of Henry Kirke White.
XXXI.
Ye Powers of Hell! no coward's is my soul —
Of old I proved it — Who the forces led
That shook Jehovah's throne above the pole?
Who with Ithuriel coped? — the thunders dread
Of the Omnipotent? — Who, when ye fled,
Followed by wrath and flame, — who waked ye first
From that infernal lake, your burning bed,
To fell revenge? Who dared alone the worst,
And through the void obscure from out the prison burst?
XXXII.
Who brought ye o'er the unfathomable abyss,
To this delightful world, and bade you reign?
Mine was the peril — yours possession, bliss —
I won — and ye enjoyed the new domain,
The thrones that totter now — then, who shall stain
My valour, chiefs, with doubt, that I would lose
Tamely the power I had such toil to gain?
Yon treacherous fiend
? — what he! shall he traduce
The strength of Satan's Sword, who breathes but by abuse —
XXXIII.
Lives but on death — on the defenceless preys —
Who sucks the blood of infants — doth delight
But in ignoble cruelty, and sways
Unequal strife? — Away! thou bane of fight!
Who shunn'st the day, and lurkest for the night,
To hover, like a cormorant, o'er the plains,
And feed upon the flesh of wounded knight,
And drench the last drop from his bleeding veins,
And greatly triumph o'er a hero's dying pains!
XXXIV.
True bravery is from rashness as remote
As trembling hesitation, O my peers!—
Then be our counsel cool, and calm our thought,
Not warped by fury, nor subdued by fears,
That Resolution, steadfast as the spheres,
Fixed — fierce as Hell, our purposes may rear!
The time which lost us Heaven by proof declares,
That Power is His who doth the thunder bear, —
But Subtlety is ours — we are his equals there!
17th April, 1819.
