Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
Imagination.
Thou fair enchantress of my willing heart,
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,—
Thou Siren, who, with lovelit eyes, and voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea
Or quaking sands of untried theory
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,—
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answer'd it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And taught by thee, angelic visitant,
Have I not learnt to love the tuneful lyre,
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind,
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,
This clearing of the eye, this path made straight
Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core,
This keenness to perceive and seek and find
And love and prize all-present harmony,
This, more than choosing words to clothe the thought,
Makes the true poet; this thy glorious gift,
Imagination, rescues me thy son
(Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust
Of mammon, and the cares of animal life,
And the dull thraldom of this work-day world.
Who charmest it to deep and dreamy slumber,
Gilding mine evening clouds of reverie,—
Thou Siren, who, with lovelit eyes, and voice
Most softly musical, dost lure me on
O'er the wide sea of indistinct idea
Or quaking sands of untried theory
Or ridgy shoals of fixt experiment
That wind a dubious pathway through the deep,—
Imagination, I am thine own child:
Have I not often sat with thee retired,
Alone yet not alone, though grave most glad,
All silent outwardly, but loud within
As from the distant hum of many waters,
Weaving the tissue of some delicate thought,
And hushing every breath that might have rent
Our web of gossamer, so finely spun?
Have I not often listed thy sweet song,
(While in vague echoes and Æolian notes
The chambers of my heart have answer'd it,)
With eye as bright in joy, and fluttering pulse,
As the coy village maiden's, when her lover
Whispers his hope to her delighted ear?
And taught by thee, angelic visitant,
344
Draining from every chord its musical soul?
Have I not learnt to find in all that is,
Somewhat to touch the heart, or raise the mind,
Somewhat of grand and beautiful to praise
Alike in small and great things? and this power,
This clearing of the eye, this path made straight
Even to the heart's own heart, its innermost core,
This keenness to perceive and seek and find
And love and prize all-present harmony,
This, more than choosing words to clothe the thought,
Makes the true poet; this thy glorious gift,
Imagination, rescues me thy son
(Thy son, albeit least worthy,) from the lust
Of mammon, and the cares of animal life,
And the dull thraldom of this work-day world.
Indulgent lover, I am all thine own;
What art thou not to me?—ah, little know
The worshippers of cold reality,
The grosser minds, who most sincerely think
That sense is the broad avenue to bliss,
Little know they the thrilling ecstasy
The delicate refinement in delight
That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars
Far above all these petty things of life;
And strengthen'd by the flight and cordial joys
Can then come down to earth and common men
Better in motive, stronger in resolve,
Apter to use all means that compass good,
And of more charitable mind to all.
Imagination, art thou not my friend
In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear,
Brother, and sister, mine own other self,
The Hector to my soul's Andromache?
What art thou not to me?—ah, little know
The worshippers of cold reality,
The grosser minds, who most sincerely think
That sense is the broad avenue to bliss,
Little know they the thrilling ecstasy
The delicate refinement in delight
That cheers the thoughtful spirit, as it soars
Far above all these petty things of life;
And strengthen'd by the flight and cordial joys
Can then come down to earth and common men
Better in motive, stronger in resolve,
Apter to use all means that compass good,
And of more charitable mind to all.
345
In crowds and solitude, my comrade dear,
Brother, and sister, mine own other self,
The Hector to my soul's Andromache?
Triumphant beauty, bright intelligence!
The chasten'd fire of ecstasy suppress'd
Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart,
Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed,
Is all on flame a censer fill'd with odours;
And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power,
Suggesting passive terrors and delights,
A slumbering volcano: thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-form'd dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep
Ruddy and white fantastically branch
The coral groves; thy broad and sunny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred-fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The muses, and the passions, and young love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth and wild conceits;
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits:
On either side of that broad sunny brow
Flame-colour'd pinions, streak'd with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forkèd lightning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallow'd eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks!
The chasten'd fire of ecstasy suppress'd
Beams from thine eye; because thy secret heart,
Like that strange sight burning yet unconsumed,
Is all on flame a censer fill'd with odours;
And to my mind, who feel thy fearful power,
Suggesting passive terrors and delights,
A slumbering volcano: thy dark cheek,
Warm and transparent, by its half-form'd dimple
Reveals an under-world of wondrous things
Ripe in their richness,—as among the bays
Of blest Bermuda, through the sapphire deep
Ruddy and white fantastically branch
The coral groves; thy broad and sunny brow,
Made fertile by the genial smile of heaven,
Shoots up an hundred-fold the glorious crop
Of arabesque ideas; forth from thy curls
Half hidden in their black luxuriance
The twining sister-graces lightly spring,
The muses, and the passions, and young love,
Tritons and Naiads, Pegasus, and Sphinx,
Atlas, Briareus, Phaeton, and Cyclops,
Centaurs, and shapes uncouth and wild conceits;
And in the midst blazes the star of mind,
Illumining the classic portico
That leads to the high dome where Learning sits:
346
Flame-colour'd pinions, streak'd with gold and blue,
Burst from the teeming brain; while under them
The forkèd lightning, and the cloud-robed thunder,
And fearful shadows, and unhallow'd eyes,
And strange foreboding forms of terrible things
Lurk in the midnight of thy raven locks!
And thou hast been the sunshine to my landscape,
Imagination; thou hast wreathed me smiles,
And hung them on a statue's marble lips;
Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems;
Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove
The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres;
Hast lengthen'd out my nights with life-long dreams,
And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day;
Help'd me to scale in thought the walls of heaven,
While journeying wearily this busy world;
Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles,
And with leviathan the silent deep;
Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand
Beyond himself, and live in other scenes,
And other times, and among other men;
Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone,
First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims,
And sensibilities of delicate sort,
Like timorous mimosas, which the breath
The cold and cautious breath of daily life
Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill
From my heart's garden; for they stand retired,
Screen'd from the north by groves of rooted thought.
Imagination; thou hast wreathed me smiles,
And hung them on a statue's marble lips;
Hast made earth's dullest pebbles bright like gems;
Hast lent me thine own silken clue, to rove
The ideal labyrinths of a thousand spheres;
Hast lengthen'd out my nights with life-long dreams,
And with glad seeming gilt my darkest day;
Help'd me to scale in thought the walls of heaven,
While journeying wearily this busy world;
Sent me to pierce the palpable clouds with eagles,
And with leviathan the silent deep;
Hast taught my youthful spirit to expand
Beyond himself, and live in other scenes,
And other times, and among other men;
Hast bid me cherish, silent and alone,
First feelings, and young hopes, and better aims,
And sensibilities of delicate sort,
Like timorous mimosas, which the breath
The cold and cautious breath of daily life
Hath not as yet had power to blight and kill
From my heart's garden; for they stand retired,
Screen'd from the north by groves of rooted thought.
347
Without thine aid, how cheerless were all time,
But chief the short sweet hours of earliest love;
When the young mind, athirst for happiness,
And all-exulting in that new-found treasure,
The wealth of being loved, as well as loving,
Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, speaks not,
Except it be of her, his one desire;
And thy rose-colour'd glass on every scene
With more than earthly promise cheats the eye,
While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words,
And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty.
So too the memory of departed joy,
Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl,
Passes before the mind with look less stern
And foot more lighten'd, when thine inward power,
Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face
Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,
And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope.
But chief the short sweet hours of earliest love;
When the young mind, athirst for happiness,
And all-exulting in that new-found treasure,
The wealth of being loved, as well as loving,
Sees not, and hears not, knows not, thinks not, speaks not,
Except it be of her, his one desire;
And thy rose-colour'd glass on every scene
With more than earthly promise cheats the eye,
While the charm'd ear drinks thy melodious words,
And the heart reels, drunk with ideal beauty.
So too the memory of departed joy,
Walking in black with sprinkled tears of pearl,
Passes before the mind with look less stern
And foot more lighten'd, when thine inward power,
Most gentle friend, upon that clouded face
Sheds the fair light of better joy to come,
And throws round Grief the azure scarf of Hope.
As the wild chamois bounds from rock to rock,
Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised,
Unconscious that the cliff from which he hangs
Was once a fiery sea of molten stone
Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized
When earth was labouring with her kraken brood;
So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As in a whirlwind I have flown along
Wing'd with ecstatic mind, and carried away
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,—stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant halls of self-existing Light!
Oft on the granite steeples nicely poised,
Unconscious that the cliff from which he hangs
Was once a fiery sea of molten stone
Shot up ten thousand feet and crystallized
When earth was labouring with her kraken brood;
So have I sped with thee, my bright-eyed love,
Imagination, over pathless wilds,
Bounding from thought to thought, unmindful of
The fever of my soul that shot them up
And made a ready footing for my speed,
As in a whirlwind I have flown along
348
Like Ganymede of old, o'er cloudcapt Ida,
Or Alps, or Andes, or the ice-bound shores
Of Arctic or Antarctic,—stolen from earth
Her sister-planets and the twinkling eyes
That watch her from afar, to the pure seat
Of rarest Matter's last created world,
And brilliant halls of self-existing Light!
| Ballads for the Times | |