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 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
184
SUMMER WEST WIND.
I.
From what dear island in the Indian seasCom'st thou, sweet spicy breeze;—
The freshness of the morning on thy wing,
And all the bloom of spring?—
Ah! ere thy flight was taken,
The rose and shrub were shaken;
Thou stol'st to many a bower of bloom and bliss,
Giving and taking many a balmy kiss!
Ah! happy, that in flying, thou not leavest
Aught that thou need'st or grievest;
Thy spirit knows not fetters, though subdued,
For a long time, thy mood;—
Yet, let the west implore thee,
The sweet south smile before thee,
The murmur of their fountains meet thine ear,
And thou, anon, art there!
The lone one will forget her loneliness
As thou uplift'st her tress,
Kissing, with none to check,
The whitest neck,—
She blushing, with fond fancies, that repine
For other lips than thine,—
Ah! why not mine!
II.
Methinks from thy sweet breath and tender motion,Thy last flight was from caves in southern ocean,
Spar-gemm'd and lustrous;—there, thy form has crept
To the pale Nereid as she sighing, slept!
Ah, wanton!—thou hast toy'd with tangled hair,
185
Seal'd up bright eyes with kisses, that anon,
When sleep and thou wert gone,
Wept at the hapless waking which destroy'd
The sweetest world of void!—
Thou might'st have linger'd in thy watch secure,—
Thy kisses, though they waken'd her, were pure;
Nay, on her lips thou might'st impress the seal
Her cheeks still blush to feel;
Her sea-shell, meanwhile, suiting with sweet notes,
Till slowly, through its purple winding, floats
Love's fondest plaint,—
The saddest dear'st effusion of her saint;
Touch'd to the soul with such a tenderness,
She may no more express,—
Her only grief, her joy in such excess,
No words may well declare, no music paint!
III.
Canst thou desert her, vain one!—wilt thou fly,With sunset, when the purple billow glows,
As with new passion 'neath the western sky?—
Thy flight hath borne with it her dear repose;—
That music, as it goes,
Robs her of life with love;—unless it be
She still can fly with thee;—
Borne far with dying day,
A faint but fairy lay,—
That moves her,—following through the fields of air,—
Thee seeking, false one, seeking everywhere!
IV.
Even in his fiercest hourThou mock'st the great sun's power,
186
Shield'st fondly from his glow,
And cherishest and cheer'st the drooping flower.
Lo! smiling, the green trees that forward bend
With thy fast flight to blend;
Lo! the cool'd waves that dimpling ocean's isles,
Implore thee with a thousand frantic wiles,
Flinging their shells along the yellow beach,
That thou mayst teach,
With lingering whisper, as thou dartest by,
To every twisted core, its melody.
V.
Swart labor greets thee from his fields with prayer,And bows with dripping hair,
Vest open wide and blue eye that declares
A gladness born of cares.—
Mother of meekness, child of happy birth,
Sprung from the sky, yet born alone for earth,—
Glows his broad bosom as he sees thy wing,
Slow spreading, and with silence hovering,
A purple cloud descending,
Above his green fields bending,
And blessing!—Thou hast cheer'd him with thy breath,
When all was still as death;
Leaves quivering in the close and stifling air;
A languor, like despair,
Stretch'd o'er the earth, and through the coppery sky
That burns the upholding eye;—
Streams fled from ancient channels, and the blade
Blasted as soon as made—
And the sad drooping of all things that sigh,
With the dread fear to die!
187
VI.
Ah! still above our green plains brood, and bringLife to their languishing!
Sweet breath and dear protection! go not soon,
Though, with the rising moon,
The mermaid woos thee to her silvery isle,
And songs from green-hair'd ocean-maids beguile,
No longer dumb with rapture, waiting thee.
We may not set thee free,—
Let prayer secure thee for a season, till
Prayer true as ours gives freedom to thy will!
Then linger not too long, nor all forget
How fondly, when we met,
Our arms were spread to greet thee,—and each breast,
Wide, opening for its guest.
Come to us waking—sleeping; do not fear
To waken, with thy music in each ear,
Music of flowers and of the gentle waves
That break in moonlight caves,—
Music of youth and hope, which, if it know
A touch of tears or woe,
Is yet a woe of tenderness, that brings
Gleams still of sweetest things;—
And, if it tell of night,
Tells of it only when its stars are bright,
And in the silvery, soft and tremulous air,
The moon and thou art both commercing there.
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |