Mundi et Cordis :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nor step, nor speech of human thing is near;
But many-winged creatures, round me flying,
Make the incessant airs one voice appear
From Being's infinite heart! Upon the dying
Trunk of this mossy fruit-tree, old and sere,
And half-uprooted, toward the green slope lying,
Will I recline; and fold me in a trance
Of meditation with the bard of France.

2.

Away! thou art too wild for this calm dell;
Anon, I'll ponder with thee by the foam.
A bridal music, not a burial knell,
Must echo here: within this leafy dome
Soft-gushing melodies high o'er me swell
From two enamour'd birds, to shadow come
To bless each other with a summer song,
Whilst yet the earth is green and daylight long.

3.

O, god Apollo! there be million pleasures
Which thine eternal lyre can ne'er express
That warble in these winged poets' measures,
Full flowing from their little hearts' excess!
I know not what may be the rhymed treasures
That have been lost in old Time's wilderness;
But well I weet that never human lips
Breath'd love to love with sweeter soul-eclipse!

4.

They chant, till their own exquisite melodies
Extrance them into silence, and they flit
Mutely among the leaves: the gleaming flies,
Whose wings are rainbows, as with ether lit,
Around me wheel with stirring harmonies
That ne'er from dawn to twilight intermit;
And deep in yon green cave a veiled stream
Murmurs like thoughts of Heaven in a dream.

5.

Alphonse de Lamartine! Come hither, hither—
Furling thy sullen spirit's eagle pinion,
As mine is furl'd; and let us weave together
A sunny song of panting Love's dominion
Over the Universe! let us wear ether
Unclouded in our hearts, leaving the minion

Of common life to strive with common sorrow,
And with our lyres assert the joy of Heaven's morrow!

6.

“I am here! but not rejoicing
With thine idle gladness;
From the music round us voicing
I but gather sadness:
Thou sittest on a tree uprooted,
Which shall no more be leav'd or fruited;
Those minstrel birds, the bird of prey,
Or winter and its want, shall slay;
Those insects are each other's slaughter;
And the sweet music of the water,
Yon emerald cavern's mystic river,
The falling earth strikes dumb for ever.”

7.

I would reply; but—hark to that pure strain!—
Those wiser bards sing in the boughs again!