 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
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FAIRIES AND FLOWERS.
I
From the bright chambers of the vestal roseNo more the fairies to their revels bound;
The lily's ivory halls no more disclose
Their elfin tribe—nor fays, with goss'mer crowned,
Slow float on silver blossoms to the ground:
No more we hear their viewless minstrels play,
As when in emerald rings they danced around,—
The vision and the grace have left our day,
And England's fairy world passed, with its youth, away!
II
The bright mythology of vanished days!—We are too learn'd its credence to allow;
Science hath oped too wide our colder gaze:—
But are we better—wiser—happier—now
That we fair fancy's birth-right disavow?—
No more believe the midnight eyes behold
Shapes, born of air, to which the planets bow?
No longer seek the fairy palace old
Which elves chivalrous guard, with straw-like spears of gold.
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III
Hither, ye fays!—fantastic elves!—that leapThe slender hare-cup,—climb the cowslip bells—
And teaze the wild bee as she lies asleep!
Hither from shrines of bloom, and glow-worm cells,—
From leafy halls—and flowery citadels,—
Hither, bright fairies;—hither to my breast!
Lead me once more where childhood's memory dwells
In its believing beauty—heaven imprest!—
Bring innocence and faith,—be each again my guest!
IV
Visions of immortality!—that showThe longing of the mind for something more
Than mortal being!—the deep wish to know
The things of other worlds,—the angel store
Of mystery learnt but on the spirit-shore,
Where mid-way fairies sport on fancy's track!—
Glad elves! our season of romance restore,—
Come, our Aladdin-years we'll wander back,—
See fairy-hunters gay, and their bold insect-pack!
V
We have breasts, now, in which affections deadHave left their “withered rings” around the heart!
And bosoms whence the child of hope hath fled,
Although no fairy in its loss had part!
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The rifled chalice, and the broken bowl,
Where memory by the fount whence sorrows start,
Keeps green the old mythology of soul,—
Those fairy realms of youth o'er which Time's death-wheels roll!—
VI
Have we not tasted of the fairy dew?—Do we behold things as they really are?
Or, like Titania, gaze with spell-bound view,
And lavish love on what were best afar?—
Proves that not oft a stone, we deemed a star!—
Alas, each bosom hath its Oberon too;—
Susceptibility—which seeks to war
With what it loves, and most desires to woo;
Yet urged—unknowing why—to wound, and still pursue!
VII
Oh, Queen of Fancy, what an empire's thine!—What classic loveliness pervades thy shore!—
Creations which the bard hath made divine—
Idols and gods—all creeds alike adore—
The mental deities of ages hoar;
Harmonious moulds where deathless pæans sound
Sole consecrate to genius evermore!—
Where every step finds intellectual ground,
Thronged by the kings of mind, that time, and fame have crowned.
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VIII
Have not the flowers a language? Speak, young rose,Speak, bashful sister of the footless dell!
Thy blooming loves,—thy sweet regards disclose;
Oh, speak!—for many a legend keep'st thou well;
Old tales of wars—crusading knights who fell,
And bade thee minister their latest sighs!—
Speak, grayhaired daisy!—ancient primrose, tell!
Ye, vernal harps! ye, sylvan harmonies!—
Speak, poets of the fields!—rapt gazers on the skies!
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