 | The harp and plow |  |
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VISION OF POESY.
How strangely real often seem
The wild chimeras of a dream!
One may in vision catch a gleam
Of glory bright,
That never blest, with faintest beam,
His wakeful sight.
The wild chimeras of a dream!
One may in vision catch a gleam
Of glory bright,
That never blest, with faintest beam,
His wakeful sight.
Gone was a tiresome harvest day;
The moon resumed her nightly sway,
And toil exhausted reapers lay
In slumber deep,
And I, bethinking how to pray,
Had drop'd asleep.
The moon resumed her nightly sway,
And toil exhausted reapers lay
In slumber deep,
And I, bethinking how to pray,
Had drop'd asleep.
But mine that night was troubled sleep;
In fancy still a-field to reap,
With all my skill I could not keep
My gavels true;
As adverse, crinkling winds would sweep
My endless through.
In fancy still a-field to reap,
With all my skill I could not keep
My gavels true;
As adverse, crinkling winds would sweep
My endless through.
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When lo! a supernatural light
Flashed round my couch, surpassing bright,
While I, confounded at a sight
So strangely dread,
Beneath the mantle in affright
Concealed my head.
Flashed round my couch, surpassing bright,
While I, confounded at a sight
So strangely dread,
Beneath the mantle in affright
Concealed my head.
Bewildered with a sense of fear
That visitation dread was near,
I waited awful sounds to hear,
Like dying groans,
Some spectral form might slow uprear
Its chalky bones!
That visitation dread was near,
I waited awful sounds to hear,
Like dying groans,
Some spectral form might slow uprear
Its chalky bones!
When wild, sweet music, soft and low,
To time harmonious gliding slow,
With soothing import seemed to flow,
All fear to quell;
Whereat, well pleased, quoth I, I'll know
Who plays so well!
To time harmonious gliding slow,
With soothing import seemed to flow,
All fear to quell;
Whereat, well pleased, quoth I, I'll know
Who plays so well!
Unveiling then my wondering eyes,
I saw, entranced with deep surprise,
An angel-tenant of the skies,—
It seemed to be—
Standing arrayed in beauteous guise,
Beholding me.
I saw, entranced with deep surprise,
An angel-tenant of the skies,—
It seemed to be—
Standing arrayed in beauteous guise,
Beholding me.
The phantom seemed a maiden fair,
With long bright locks of auburn hair;
Her arm and snowy bosom bare,
Of sculptured mould;
Her graceful robe!—no mortals wear
That airy fold!
With long bright locks of auburn hair;
Her arm and snowy bosom bare,
Of sculptured mould;
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That airy fold!
Her eyes were lit with fancy's fire;
One hand was clasped upon a lyre
The chords of which were golden wire.
Well worth the Muse;
Such as one deems the heavenly choir
Are wont to use.
One hand was clasped upon a lyre
The chords of which were golden wire.
Well worth the Muse;
Such as one deems the heavenly choir
Are wont to use.
The lyre she raised, and brushed a string
Softly as with a zephyr's wing;
I heard the wire responsive ring
That mystic tone,
Which can the heart's most tender spring
Unlock alone.
Softly as with a zephyr's wing;
I heard the wire responsive ring
That mystic tone,
Which can the heart's most tender spring
Unlock alone.
Pensive she gazed upon my face,
And seemed thereon my thoughts to trace;
Then with a noiseless, gliding pace
Approached the fair,
And thus she spoke with native grace,
And noble air:—
And seemed thereon my thoughts to trace;
Then with a noiseless, gliding pace
Approached the fair,
And thus she spoke with native grace,
And noble air:—
‘Hail, Reaper, hail! distrust not me,
Thy foster-mother, Poesy!
I come with tidings unto thee,
Blest of the Nine!
I come to tell thee thou shalt be
Acknowledged mine!
Thy foster-mother, Poesy!
I come with tidings unto thee,
Blest of the Nine!
I come to tell thee thou shalt be
Acknowledged mine!
‘To Scotia's rustic bard I came
To crown his brow with bays of fame,
And hand posterity his name
Recorded bright.
Haply of thee some bard the same
One day may write.
To crown his brow with bays of fame,
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Recorded bright.
Haply of thee some bard the same
One day may write.
‘To numbers I attuned his tongue;
Prompted by me his lyre he strung
And to his raptured country sung
His ditties wild;
While fast to Nature's robes he clung—
Her loving child.
Prompted by me his lyre he strung
And to his raptured country sung
His ditties wild;
While fast to Nature's robes he clung—
Her loving child.
‘I know thou lovest Nature well,
Tho' faithless all thy love to tell;
With her 't is thy delight to dwell,
With her to stray
Down purling brook or lonely dell
In musing way.
Tho' faithless all thy love to tell;
With her 't is thy delight to dwell,
With her to stray
Down purling brook or lonely dell
In musing way.
‘When Spring with all her winning powers
Invites thee forth within her bowers,
I see thee from her bright-eyed hours
That skip along,
Her leafy sprays, and fragrant flowers
Indite the song.
Invites thee forth within her bowers,
I see thee from her bright-eyed hours
That skip along,
Her leafy sprays, and fragrant flowers
Indite the song.
‘When Summer with her mantle green
In all her beauteous prime is seen,
I note thy soberness of mien,
And thoughtful look;
From her thou dost instruction glean
As from a book.
In all her beauteous prime is seen,
I note thy soberness of mien,
And thoughtful look;
From her thou dost instruction glean
As from a book.
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‘When sober Autumn's moons appear,
I see thee mark the rolling year,
Its withered foliage scattering sere,
With deep delight;
Her voiceful winds you love to hear,
Enraptured quite.
I see thee mark the rolling year,
Its withered foliage scattering sere,
With deep delight;
Her voiceful winds you love to hear,
Enraptured quite.
‘When hoary Winter laps his shroud
O'er Nature's face, thy muse is proud
To hear the bellowing demon crowd
At midnight run;
Or, see the drifty, smothering cloud
Pall the pale sun!
O'er Nature's face, thy muse is proud
To hear the bellowing demon crowd
At midnight run;
Or, see the drifty, smothering cloud
Pall the pale sun!
‘When Fortune, with her fickle hand
Beckoned thee to a distant strand,
I saw thee list to her command
And willing go;
But bad'st farewell thy native land
In dirge of wo.
Beckoned thee to a distant strand,
I saw thee list to her command
And willing go;
But bad'st farewell thy native land
In dirge of wo.
‘And when beneath a milder clime
Where folly takes “no note of time,”
Where reveled riot boasts of crime—
I've seen thee raise
Thy harp and strike a tuneful chime—
New England's praise.
Where folly takes “no note of time,”
Where reveled riot boasts of crime—
I've seen thee raise
Thy harp and strike a tuneful chime—
New England's praise.
‘And when the voice of human woe
You hear, in trem'lous accents low,
I note the sympathetic flow
That marks thy strains;
You burn to see the gew-gaw show,
And worth in chains.
You hear, in trem'lous accents low,
I note the sympathetic flow
That marks thy strains;
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And worth in chains.
‘I see thee, scion of that race
Who dared Oppression's might to face;
You love their hallowed steps to trace
With ardor true;
Inherent PATRIOTIC GRACE
Shall hallow you.
Who dared Oppression's might to face;
You love their hallowed steps to trace
With ardor true;
Inherent PATRIOTIC GRACE
Shall hallow you.
‘This have I heard and seen in thee,—
Well pleased to hear, well pleased to see;
This mantle, sacred unto me,
Shall thee enfold!
Amongst thy country's bards shall be
Thy name enrolled!
Well pleased to hear, well pleased to see;
This mantle, sacred unto me,
Shall thee enfold!
Amongst thy country's bards shall be
Thy name enrolled!
‘And take thou this, my sounding lyre!
And let it rouse thy soul to fire!
Strike from it strains that shall not tire,—
Sing from the heart;
Thy country's glory shall inspire
Your tuneful art.
And let it rouse thy soul to fire!
Strike from it strains that shall not tire,—
Sing from the heart;
Thy country's glory shall inspire
Your tuneful art.
‘When on the hill-side or the plain
You guide the plough, or reap the grain,
Be free to wake the rural strain,
Your toils to cheer;
For ever with you I'll remain
To prompt and hear.
You guide the plough, or reap the grain,
Be free to wake the rural strain,
Your toils to cheer;
For ever with you I'll remain
To prompt and hear.
‘Sing of thy ancient, noble state;
Her worthy sons—renowned great;
Her patriotic dead, whose fate
Your freedom gave;—
Her PATRIOTIC FIRE innate
That burns to save!
Her worthy sons—renowned great;
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Your freedom gave;—
Her PATRIOTIC FIRE innate
That burns to save!
‘Sing of New England, favored land!
Her customs dear—her social band;
Her everlasting hills that stand
Above her meads,
As when at first, by His command,
They reared their heads!
Her customs dear—her social band;
Her everlasting hills that stand
Above her meads,
As when at first, by His command,
They reared their heads!
‘Sing of her streams, meandering slow,
Or rushing, seaward as they flow;
Her beetling crags that backward throw
The climbing seas;
Her blessed homes out-looking low
From sheltering trees.
Or rushing, seaward as they flow;
Her beetling crags that backward throw
The climbing seas;
Her blessed homes out-looking low
From sheltering trees.
‘Tell of her sons that rove the earth
Far from the country of their birth;
Tell of the bright domestic hearth—
Her daughters fair;
The virtue, innocence and worth
Refulgent there.
Far from the country of their birth;
Tell of the bright domestic hearth—
Her daughters fair;
The virtue, innocence and worth
Refulgent there.
‘And now to this incline thine ear:—
In every place true worth revere;
Respect thyself, nor censure fear
For thy poor lays;
Let e'en Fame's minions never hear
Thee fawn for praise.
In every place true worth revere;
Respect thyself, nor censure fear
For thy poor lays;
Let e'en Fame's minions never hear
Thee fawn for praise.
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‘Envy not Mammon with his gold;
My gifts can not be bought and sold.
Envy not Pride-of-place enrolled
With pomp and power;—
The Bard his title still shall hold
As Heaven's dower!’
My gifts can not be bought and sold.
Envy not Pride-of-place enrolled
With pomp and power;—
The Bard his title still shall hold
As Heaven's dower!’
Thus spoke the gracious, heaven-born maid.
I listened well,—no more afraid,
For all distrust and fear were laid
Forgotten by;
And took the lyre, e'en as she bade,
My skill to try.
I listened well,—no more afraid,
For all distrust and fear were laid
Forgotten by;
And took the lyre, e'en as she bade,
My skill to try.
Then, as her mantle o'er me fell,
Enchantment wrapt me in its spell.
How sweetly did my numbers swell
And glide along!
O, for the gift once more to tell
That rapturous song!
Enchantment wrapt me in its spell.
How sweetly did my numbers swell
And glide along!
O, for the gift once more to tell
That rapturous song!
I ceased to sing, with lyre upraised,
At my unwonted skill amazed,
Waiting expectant to be praised;—
Could she be there?
I turned to look, but sorrowing gazed
On empty air!
At my unwonted skill amazed,
Waiting expectant to be praised;—
Could she be there?
I turned to look, but sorrowing gazed
On empty air!
For Phœbus from his ocean-bed
Aloft his morning signals spread;
Pale in the dawn my vision fled
Like wreathing smoke;
And I to song of birds, instead
Of mine, awoke.
Aloft his morning signals spread;
Pale in the dawn my vision fled
Like wreathing smoke;
And I to song of birds, instead
Of mine, awoke.
| The harp and plow | |