 | Ode to fancy; with other poems |  |
“Poesy! thou sweet'st content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent;
Tho' they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;
Tho' thou be to them a scorn
That to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be,
Than I am in love with thee.
Tho' our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
More than all their greatest wits.
And tho' some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.”
George Wither.
That e'er heaven to mortals lent;
Tho' they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;
Tho' thou be to them a scorn
That to nought but earth are born;
Let my life no longer be,
Than I am in love with thee.
Tho' our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
More than all their greatest wits.
And tho' some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.”
George Wither.
TO ROBERT FETHERSTON, Esq. M. D.
ODE TO FANCY.
Oh Fancy, hither bend thy flight,
Hither steer thy car of light,
Tho' its rainbow colours flee
Ere they have shone a moment on my sight;
Come, Fancy, come, and bring with thee
The light-wing'd forms of air, that glance
Upon the Poet's dizzy view,
Which, when he waketh from his rapturous trance,
No effort can renew,
No tongue their beauty can declare,
No thought conceive how wond'rous fair;
Like the light clouds, whose folds are drest
With varying tints on Summer eve,
Their hues are chang'd, before the breast
Distinctly can receive
A settled thought of what they were,
She knows alone that they were fair!
Hither steer thy car of light,
Tho' its rainbow colours flee
Ere they have shone a moment on my sight;
Come, Fancy, come, and bring with thee
The light-wing'd forms of air, that glance
Upon the Poet's dizzy view,
Which, when he waketh from his rapturous trance,
No effort can renew,
No tongue their beauty can declare,
No thought conceive how wond'rous fair;
Like the light clouds, whose folds are drest
It is often difficult to ascertain how far the resemblances of thought we meet in the works of different writers are to be attributed to accident or design. Some time after this Ode was inserted on the books of the late “Historical Society,” the “World before the Flood” was published by Mr. Montgomery. I was surprised to find the visions of the poet there spoken of as being
“Frail as the clouds of sunset, and as fair
“Pageants of light, resolving into air.”
“Pageants of light, resolving into air.”
I have since found a similar thought beautifully expressed by Mr. Southey in the first book of Joan of Arc. Though the image was certainly new to me at the time I wrote the foregoing lines, I would much more willing erase it than detain my reader by this justification, if I did not feel myself obliged to print the Ode as it lies on the Society Books.
With varying tints on Summer eve,
Their hues are chang'd, before the breast
Distinctly can receive
A settled thought of what they were,
She knows alone that they were fair!
Oh Fancy, let such forms delight
Thy votary's longing eye;
Or if they may not meet my sight,
Come THOU, tho' all the winds of night
Around thy chariot fly;
Come, tho' dark Horrour come with thee,
And the pale fiend distracted Fear
Unfold to my congealing ear
His tale of mystery!
Yes, I will listen, while his breath
Tells of the dagger, on whose blade
Still gleams the red red mark of Death,
Tho' long the day since Murder laid
Upon the deadly dirk his desperate grasp,
And heard, delighted heard, his victim's last faint gasp,
And gaz'd with unaverted eye
On the last writhe of agony,
While with unshivering hand he prest
His dagger in the sleeper's breast;
Yes, I will hark, tho' Fear may tell
In piercing tone the tales of Hell,
Will listen, Fancy, if thy faintest gleam
Tinge the dark and dreadful theme!
Thy votary's longing eye;
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Come THOU, tho' all the winds of night
Around thy chariot fly;
Come, tho' dark Horrour come with thee,
And the pale fiend distracted Fear
Unfold to my congealing ear
His tale of mystery!
Yes, I will listen, while his breath
Tells of the dagger, on whose blade
Still gleams the red red mark of Death,
Tho' long the day since Murder laid
Upon the deadly dirk his desperate grasp,
And heard, delighted heard, his victim's last faint gasp,
And gaz'd with unaverted eye
On the last writhe of agony,
While with unshivering hand he prest
His dagger in the sleeper's breast;
Yes, I will hark, tho' Fear may tell
In piercing tone the tales of Hell,
Will listen, Fancy, if thy faintest gleam
Tinge the dark and dreadful theme!
Fancy, with thee I love to stray,
With thee would seek the dungeon's gloom,
Renounce for aye the visions gay
That Pleasure's tints illume;
Would listen to the owlet's cry,
Would hear the winds of Winter sigh
Amid the leafless trees;
Would hark the Spirit shrilly scream,
Would view the meteor's boding beam,
Would court thy most terrific dream,
Till my heart's blood did freeze;
Would lie the tremulous avalanche beneath,
Where the least pant is instant death,
If thy rich visions swam before my eye;
Would launch the light skiff, where the wild waves sweep
Down Niagara's dizzying steep,
If thy angelic form was nigh,
If with thy hues the mountain-snow was bright,
If thou didst tinge the wave with thy rich lines of light.
With thee would seek the dungeon's gloom,
Renounce for aye the visions gay
That Pleasure's tints illume;
Would listen to the owlet's cry,
Would hear the winds of Winter sigh
Amid the leafless trees;
Would hark the Spirit shrilly scream,
Would view the meteor's boding beam,
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Till my heart's blood did freeze;
Would lie the tremulous avalanche beneath,
Where the least pant is instant death,
If thy rich visions swam before my eye;
Would launch the light skiff, where the wild waves sweep
Down Niagara's dizzying steep,
If thy angelic form was nigh,
If with thy hues the mountain-snow was bright,
If thou didst tinge the wave with thy rich lines of light.
But sweeter, Fancy, is the trance,
When thy hues of splendour glance
On the dim and aching eye
That weeps in sad reality,
Thy visions cheer the hapless breast,
That, braving in unequal strife
The dark and stormy sea of life,
Sighs for the haven of its rest;
And, as the star in heaven's blue cope
Sheds joy upon the sailor's soul,
So dost thou dart a ray of hope
Upon the mourner's heart;
So does thy gentle art
The power of misery controul!
Tho' fortune o'er the scene may throw
The wintry cloud of want and woe,
Yet thou, Enchantress, thou canst fling
The tints of visionary spring
Upon thy votary's sight,
And paint in hues divinely bright
An after season of delight.
When thy hues of splendour glance
On the dim and aching eye
That weeps in sad reality,
Thy visions cheer the hapless breast,
That, braving in unequal strife
The dark and stormy sea of life,
Sighs for the haven of its rest;
And, as the star in heaven's blue cope
Sheds joy upon the sailor's soul,
So dost thou dart a ray of hope
Upon the mourner's heart;
So does thy gentle art
The power of misery controul!
Tho' fortune o'er the scene may throw
The wintry cloud of want and woe,
Yet thou, Enchantress, thou canst fling
The tints of visionary spring
Upon thy votary's sight,
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An after season of delight.
Oh Fancy, tho' thy cup contain
The draught of woe, and piercing pain,
Tho' oft thy flattering magic hand
Depict the future fair,
When suddenly the figures bland
Dissolve away in air;
Tho', when the Demon of Despair
Tears the pain'd breast with pointed fang,
Thou, Fancy, givest an added pang
To the keen wound of care,
Tho' thou bid the blood-streaked eye
Redden in feverish agony,
Yet is the man thy woes oppress
Gifted with heighten'd happiness;
For him, in rapture's hour, the heart
Bounds with a livelier measure;
To him Creation's stores impart
A grander sense of pleasure!
The draught of woe, and piercing pain,
Tho' oft thy flattering magic hand
Depict the future fair,
When suddenly the figures bland
Dissolve away in air;
Tho', when the Demon of Despair
Tears the pain'd breast with pointed fang,
Thou, Fancy, givest an added pang
To the keen wound of care,
Tho' thou bid the blood-streaked eye
Redden in feverish agony,
Yet is the man thy woes oppress
Gifted with heighten'd happiness;
For him, in rapture's hour, the heart
Bounds with a livelier measure;
To him Creation's stores impart
A grander sense of pleasure!
The traveller thus, in Arab-sands,
Whose lips are parch'd, whose limbs are faint,
Whose troubled thoughts for ever paint
The tyger's fangs, the Bedouin bands,
Whose camel now with faltering pace
Strives the burning path to trace,
See in that wanderer's looks exprest
The hopeless anguish of his breast;
—But now! mark! mark that start of joy,
Mark how he strains his swollen eye;
He sees yon distant spot, so green,
Shine circled with the desert sea,
Mark! mark empictur'd in his mien
The flush of hope, of extasy;
The fall, and flash of waters near
Delight the heart, and eye, and ear!
Now has his weary journey ceast,
And now he spreads his simple feast,
And, sheltered by the o'erarching palm,
Enjoys the spot so sweet, so calm!
Was ever bliss thus perfect known
To him for whom delight alone
Had spread the silken couch of ease,
And fann'd his breast with pleasure's breeze?
Thus to the man, inur'd to smart
With feelings by the throng unfelt,
For him with deeper joy the heart
In rapture's hour will melt,
Will view a prospect hid from vulgar sight,
The Eden-bower of pure and unalloy'd delight!
Whose lips are parch'd, whose limbs are faint,
Whose troubled thoughts for ever paint
The tyger's fangs, the Bedouin bands,
Whose camel now with faltering pace
Strives the burning path to trace,
See in that wanderer's looks exprest
The hopeless anguish of his breast;
—But now! mark! mark that start of joy,
Mark how he strains his swollen eye;
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Shine circled with the desert sea,
Mark! mark empictur'd in his mien
The flush of hope, of extasy;
The fall, and flash of waters near
Delight the heart, and eye, and ear!
Now has his weary journey ceast,
And now he spreads his simple feast,
And, sheltered by the o'erarching palm,
Enjoys the spot so sweet, so calm!
Was ever bliss thus perfect known
To him for whom delight alone
Had spread the silken couch of ease,
And fann'd his breast with pleasure's breeze?
Thus to the man, inur'd to smart
With feelings by the throng unfelt,
For him with deeper joy the heart
In rapture's hour will melt,
Will view a prospect hid from vulgar sight,
The Eden-bower of pure and unalloy'd delight!
But chiefly on the Poet's mind
Thine influence is shed,
His eye expatiates unconfin'd
Upon thy vast expanse,
He views with kindling glance
Thy peopled scenes before him spread!
Then Fancy bid my page to gleam
With some faint colouring from thy beam;
To thee the Poet's hopes belong,
Bid then thy light illume my song!
I call thee by thy Collins' rage,
By thy Warton's gothic page,
By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers,
By thy Shakespeare's witching numbers;
By thy Southey's grander lay,
Shed, Fancy, shed thy joyous ray!
Or move me far from Mirth's mad folly
To the haunts of Melancholy;
There shall I view the air around
Haunted by many a spectral form,
Shall hear the boding spirit sound
Amid the howlings of the storm;
Shall in the night-bird's shriek descry
The mystic tones of prophecy,
And, as the meteor's beams appal,
Behold the coming funeral,
Or view the ancient chieftain's lance
With momentary lustre glance,
As sitting in his cloudy car
He thinks upon his days of war!
Thine influence is shed,
His eye expatiates unconfin'd
Upon thy vast expanse,
He views with kindling glance
Thy peopled scenes before him spread!
Then Fancy bid my page to gleam
With some faint colouring from thy beam;
To thee the Poet's hopes belong,
Bid then thy light illume my song!
14
By thy Warton's gothic page,
By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers,
By thy Shakespeare's witching numbers;
By thy Southey's grander lay,
Shed, Fancy, shed thy joyous ray!
Or move me far from Mirth's mad folly
To the haunts of Melancholy;
There shall I view the air around
Haunted by many a spectral form,
Shall hear the boding spirit sound
Amid the howlings of the storm;
Shall in the night-bird's shriek descry
The mystic tones of prophecy,
And, as the meteor's beams appal,
Behold the coming funeral,
Or view the ancient chieftain's lance
With momentary lustre glance,
As sitting in his cloudy car
He thinks upon his days of war!
Or, gazing on the moon's pale light,
Whose mild and melancholy ray
Gives softer, and more sweet delight
Than the majestic orb of Day,
I then will deem that, while she glows
For base and thankless Man,
She mourns the vices and the woes,
That dim his little span;
Or think mayhap her light is shed
Upon the moat's moss cover'd bed,
To gild the feasts of harmless fays,
Who sport beneath the holy blaze;
Then shall the thoughts of other times
Rouse me to try adventurous rhymes,
And to the harp's deep music chaunt
The story of some old romaunt;
Thus my rapt soul, with gothic glories fraught,
In Fancy's bower shall muse, and court Poetic Thought.
Whose mild and melancholy ray
Gives softer, and more sweet delight
Than the majestic orb of Day,
I then will deem that, while she glows
For base and thankless Man,
She mourns the vices and the woes,
That dim his little span;
Or think mayhap her light is shed
Upon the moat's moss cover'd bed,
To gild the feasts of harmless fays,
Who sport beneath the holy blaze;
15
Rouse me to try adventurous rhymes,
And to the harp's deep music chaunt
The story of some old romaunt;
Thus my rapt soul, with gothic glories fraught,
In Fancy's bower shall muse, and court Poetic Thought.
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THE POET'S HAUNT.
'Tis beautiful indeed—thro' parted boughs
To see the moving clouds darken the sky,
To mark their many-shifting forms, and tints,
As slow they pass, then see the lively blue
Pure, spotless, like the soul, that hath forgot
Unworthy passions, or, if dimm'd awhile,
Soon shines reclaim'd:—'tis sweet to view that rill,
Stealing thro' moss-grown stones, so playfully
As if it fear'd to soil one starry flower:—
To see the moving clouds darken the sky,
To mark their many-shifting forms, and tints,
As slow they pass, then see the lively blue
Pure, spotless, like the soul, that hath forgot
Unworthy passions, or, if dimm'd awhile,
Soon shines reclaim'd:—'tis sweet to view that rill,
Stealing thro' moss-grown stones, so playfully
As if it fear'd to soil one starry flower:—
How many a primrose-wreath along its bank
Might I now gather, but methinks the Fay,
Whose little urn supplies this sparkling stream,
Who flings the morning dew-drop on this rose,
Might shun the violated haunt, nor bid
The water, as it drips from stone to stone
Then flows continuous, till some gadding briar
Or wild flower's tuft impede its onward course,
Speak to the ear with soft and pleasant voice,
Like broken music of some oft-heard song
That in the lonely hour we fain would catch,
That blesses now, and now eludes the ear.—
Might I now gather, but methinks the Fay,
Whose little urn supplies this sparkling stream,
Who flings the morning dew-drop on this rose,
Might shun the violated haunt, nor bid
The water, as it drips from stone to stone
Then flows continuous, till some gadding briar
Or wild flower's tuft impede its onward course,
Speak to the ear with soft and pleasant voice,
Like broken music of some oft-heard song
That in the lonely hour we fain would catch,
That blesses now, and now eludes the ear.—
How do I love to lie beneath the shade
Of this broad sycamore! the spirit here
That loves the song oft lingers, when the soul
Lies in that doubtful mood, when thoughts that pass
Across its moveless surface leave no trace,
When Memory sleeps, and Feeling only wakes,
And we but learn from interrupted thought
That we had thought at all—then not in vain
Doth Nature breathe, and Nature's breath is song!
Thou dost not rightly worship POETRY,
To whom there is no music in the leaves
Rustling in ceaseless murmurs, as the winds
Play thro' their boughs—if when the thunders roar,
And the red lightnings roll in orbs of fire,
Or glance in arrowy flight, thou canst but feel
The throb of selfish fear, then seek some fame
Worthier of thy ambition, nor presume
To bow before the shrine of Poetry!
Does thy soul slumber when the rising lark
Pours all his spirit in the full-voic'd song,
A hymn of worship at the Eastern shrine
Of Day's ascending God? and in thy heart
Wakes there no answering music of sweet thoughts
Of such strong power to steal thee from thyself
That even the song of lark, the hum of bee,
All Nature's harmonies of morning joy
Seem, when thou wakest from the holy spell,
But fragments of thy broken meditations,
Or echoes to the minstrelsy within?
If in the silence of the noon-day hour
Thou dost not own serenity of soul,
A spirit, that can love the quietude,
And brood in joy upon the thousand forms
That float unceasingly before its ken;
If, when the robin warbles from her bough
The latest accents of adoring love
To yon fair star, that gilds the twilight trees,
Thou canst not give a moral to her song;
If, when the moon sheds her still sober light
Upon this water, and deludes the eye
With shew of motion, there is in thy heart
No pulse of pleasure;—hence, for ever hence,
Oh shun this bank! it is the POET'S HAUNT!
Of this broad sycamore! the spirit here
That loves the song oft lingers, when the soul
17
Across its moveless surface leave no trace,
When Memory sleeps, and Feeling only wakes,
And we but learn from interrupted thought
That we had thought at all—then not in vain
Doth Nature breathe, and Nature's breath is song!
Thou dost not rightly worship POETRY,
To whom there is no music in the leaves
Rustling in ceaseless murmurs, as the winds
Play thro' their boughs—if when the thunders roar,
And the red lightnings roll in orbs of fire,
Or glance in arrowy flight, thou canst but feel
The throb of selfish fear, then seek some fame
Worthier of thy ambition, nor presume
To bow before the shrine of Poetry!
Does thy soul slumber when the rising lark
Pours all his spirit in the full-voic'd song,
A hymn of worship at the Eastern shrine
Of Day's ascending God? and in thy heart
Wakes there no answering music of sweet thoughts
Of such strong power to steal thee from thyself
That even the song of lark, the hum of bee,
All Nature's harmonies of morning joy
Seem, when thou wakest from the holy spell,
But fragments of thy broken meditations,
Or echoes to the minstrelsy within?
If in the silence of the noon-day hour
Thou dost not own serenity of soul,
A spirit, that can love the quietude,
And brood in joy upon the thousand forms
That float unceasingly before its ken;
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The latest accents of adoring love
To yon fair star, that gilds the twilight trees,
Thou canst not give a moral to her song;
If, when the moon sheds her still sober light
Upon this water, and deludes the eye
With shew of motion, there is in thy heart
No pulse of pleasure;—hence, for ever hence,
Oh shun this bank! it is the POET'S HAUNT!
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THE EVERLASTING ROSE.
I
Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower,Still shed around thy soft perfume,
Still smile amid the wint'ry hour,
And boast even now a springtide bloom.
II
In April's bower thy sweets are breath'd,And June beholds thy blossoms fair;
In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreath'd,
And round December's forehead bare.
III
The Summer lily sees thee blow,As high she rears her trembling head;
And Winter boasts his flowers of snow,
A contrast to thy lingering red.
IV
For thee the cuckow pours his voice,And thou dost see the swallow gay,
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice,
And wint'ry robin's sweeter lay.
20
V
Most soft, most lovely dost thou seem,'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost;
And gathering beauty from each beam
No hue, no grace of thine is lost.
VI
Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair;
Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
And cold Affliction's winter air.
VII
Alike she blooms in Science' bower,And in the rural cot she glows,
The Poet's and the Lover's flower,
The bosom's everlasting Rose!
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HOME.
Haunts of my youthful days, tho' distant far,
My spirit is with you! oh I could weep,
Vex'd with the jarrings of this populous world,
To think upon thy deep tranquillity,
Mine own lov'd home! the struggles and the strife
Of worthless ones, that sink into the heart,
Turn'd all its blood to poison! I have thought
Of thee, and I am calm: thy trees arose,
Brightening before mine eye: the pleasantness
That slumbers in thy vallies—the soft hues
That bathe thy sunny hills—all met my soul;
And, lovelier far than Nature's outward forms,
The spirit of Domestic Happiness:
The voice of her I lov'd was in my ear,
She smil'd serenity, and I was calm.
Even now I am no more the man I was
When first I sat to meditate this song;
For then the harsh rebuke, the bitter taunt,
(Most harsh when issuing from Friendship's lips,)
Still vex'd the ear, and sicken'd all the soul;
Haunts of my childhood, now I think on you,
And thoughts and feelings gush along my heart
Sweet as the music of my native stream!—
Feelings more holy never with the breeze
Of Evening stole into the spirit of him
Who plies his bark on Uri's lonely lake,
And meditates on Tell—the while he sees
Darkening the wave beneath the fane which speaks
The patriot's triumph, and his country's love:
The tear is on his cheek—his heart is full—
A brighter tinge hath lit his streaming eye,
With gentler sweep he draws the gliding oar,
Fearful to break those shadows on the wave
Which wake such deep, such sacred sympathies!—
My spirit is with you! oh I could weep,
Vex'd with the jarrings of this populous world,
To think upon thy deep tranquillity,
Mine own lov'd home! the struggles and the strife
Of worthless ones, that sink into the heart,
Turn'd all its blood to poison! I have thought
Of thee, and I am calm: thy trees arose,
Brightening before mine eye: the pleasantness
That slumbers in thy vallies—the soft hues
That bathe thy sunny hills—all met my soul;
And, lovelier far than Nature's outward forms,
The spirit of Domestic Happiness:
The voice of her I lov'd was in my ear,
She smil'd serenity, and I was calm.
Even now I am no more the man I was
When first I sat to meditate this song;
For then the harsh rebuke, the bitter taunt,
(Most harsh when issuing from Friendship's lips,)
Still vex'd the ear, and sicken'd all the soul;
Haunts of my childhood, now I think on you,
And thoughts and feelings gush along my heart
Sweet as the music of my native stream!—
Feelings more holy never with the breeze
Of Evening stole into the spirit of him
22
And meditates on Tell—the while he sees
Darkening the wave beneath the fane which speaks
The patriot's triumph, and his country's love:
The tear is on his cheek—his heart is full—
A brighter tinge hath lit his streaming eye,
With gentler sweep he draws the gliding oar,
Fearful to break those shadows on the wave
Which wake such deep, such sacred sympathies!—
Haunts of my childhood, are ye still as fair
As when I wander'd thro' each green recess?
Still does the soft breeze with his gentle breath
Stirring at once a thousand twinkling leaves
Utter neglected music? Does the cloud,
In whose dark womb the noon-day Sun is hid,
Whose folds are lightly colour'd with his beams,
Still hang as lovely in the silent sky?
Is Nature still the same, altho' no more
An eye is there, to hold deep intercourse
With all her forms, altho' no heart is there
To feel her power, and hymn her holiness?
Oft have I thought some bond of mighty strength
Had linked me in a strange identity
With outward accidents of Nature—oft
Methought some spell of more than human force
Had lull'd to rest my individual self,
And that one soul inspir'd the scenes around,
The spacious sky, the universal air,
And him who gazed in rapture on the sight!
And now in crowded city, oh how strange,
How impious does this separation seem,
From all I wish and love—even from myself!
Yet have I oft-times held communion high
And holy with the absent scenery
That pleas'd me: oft with spirit most intense
I brooded, till amid the silent soul
Was heard the flow of waters, and the stir
Of Summer leaves—till every form I lov'd
Was with me—till I ceas'd to be alone.
Dear are such visions to the thinking soul,
And like in love as in their nature like
To those fair forms, that, having past from earth,
Return at twilight, and the musing man,
Before whose eye they move, conceives their looks
Chasten'd, refin'd, and purified by Death!
As when I wander'd thro' each green recess?
Still does the soft breeze with his gentle breath
Stirring at once a thousand twinkling leaves
Utter neglected music? Does the cloud,
In whose dark womb the noon-day Sun is hid,
Whose folds are lightly colour'd with his beams,
Still hang as lovely in the silent sky?
Is Nature still the same, altho' no more
An eye is there, to hold deep intercourse
With all her forms, altho' no heart is there
To feel her power, and hymn her holiness?
Oft have I thought some bond of mighty strength
Had linked me in a strange identity
With outward accidents of Nature—oft
Methought some spell of more than human force
Had lull'd to rest my individual self,
And that one soul inspir'd the scenes around,
The spacious sky, the universal air,
And him who gazed in rapture on the sight!
And now in crowded city, oh how strange,
How impious does this separation seem,
From all I wish and love—even from myself!
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And holy with the absent scenery
That pleas'd me: oft with spirit most intense
I brooded, till amid the silent soul
Was heard the flow of waters, and the stir
Of Summer leaves—till every form I lov'd
Was with me—till I ceas'd to be alone.
Dear are such visions to the thinking soul,
And like in love as in their nature like
To those fair forms, that, having past from earth,
Return at twilight, and the musing man,
Before whose eye they move, conceives their looks
Chasten'd, refin'd, and purified by Death!
Spirits, that oft on light and dewy wing
Hover'd around the cradle of my childhood,
Touching the dreaming infant's cheek with smiles,
And, in the hours of my advancing age,
Have, with such music as the unseen lark
Oft sends into the morning traveller's soul,
Pour'd strains of more than earthly melody
In calm and awful accents to the heart,
Breathing along those inward chords that thrill
With unbid impulse to the Poet's lay;
Spirits, ye have not yet deserted me;
Ye have not left me, darkly wandering,
Companionless, unguided, in a world
I cannot mingle with! Conflicting men
May rudely throw me from their noisy converse,
Or stretch the hand of seeming brotherhood,
And mock me with their love.
Hover'd around the cradle of my childhood,
Touching the dreaming infant's cheek with smiles,
And, in the hours of my advancing age,
Have, with such music as the unseen lark
Oft sends into the morning traveller's soul,
Pour'd strains of more than earthly melody
In calm and awful accents to the heart,
Breathing along those inward chords that thrill
With unbid impulse to the Poet's lay;
Spirits, ye have not yet deserted me;
Ye have not left me, darkly wandering,
Companionless, unguided, in a world
I cannot mingle with! Conflicting men
May rudely throw me from their noisy converse,
Or stretch the hand of seeming brotherhood,
And mock me with their love.
Haunts of my youth,
Ye will not mock me, and ye cannot change.
Ye will not mock me, and ye cannot change.
25
SOLITUDE.
AN ODE.
Oh, what a lovely silent spot!
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lowly cot,
Just where with easy slope
The wooded mountain bends,
Where the clear rill descends
Now hid the jutting rocks beneath,
Now faintly sparkling on the eye,
Itself conceal'd, its course we now descry
By the long grass, and blossomy heath,
By the cowslip's saffron hue,
By the violet's clouded blue,
Beside its fostering bed
In waste profusion spread;
Its widening wave at distance now we hail,
Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale.
Now turn and gaze on cliffs sublime,
And see the goat laborious climb
Where the clinging ivy grows,
White are those cliffs with Winter snows,
While spring-tide breezes gaily breathe,
And bless the joyous vale beneath:—
—At Spring's return the earth is glad,
And yet to me, at this lone hour,
The wood-dove's note, from yonder natural bower,
Tho' winning sweet, is sad;
And there is sadness in the tone
Of the robin, that alone
Sings, as mourning o'er the dead,
From the yew, whose branches throw
Their shadows on the grave below,
Whose leaves upon the grave are shed;
The robin's notes, low-warbled o'er the tomb,
Soothe, while they make me mourn, are sad, yet without gloom.
'Mid such a scene the eremite would hope
To build his lowly cot,
Just where with easy slope
The wooded mountain bends,
Where the clear rill descends
Now hid the jutting rocks beneath,
Now faintly sparkling on the eye,
Itself conceal'd, its course we now descry
By the long grass, and blossomy heath,
By the cowslip's saffron hue,
By the violet's clouded blue,
Beside its fostering bed
In waste profusion spread;
Its widening wave at distance now we hail,
Where bright, and blue, and broad, it rolls along the vale.
26
And see the goat laborious climb
Where the clinging ivy grows,
White are those cliffs with Winter snows,
While spring-tide breezes gaily breathe,
And bless the joyous vale beneath:—
—At Spring's return the earth is glad,
And yet to me, at this lone hour,
The wood-dove's note, from yonder natural bower,
Tho' winning sweet, is sad;
And there is sadness in the tone
Of the robin, that alone
Sings, as mourning o'er the dead,
From the yew, whose branches throw
Their shadows on the grave below,
Whose leaves upon the grave are shed;
The robin's notes, low-warbled o'er the tomb,
Soothe, while they make me mourn, are sad, yet without gloom.
In such a scene, when all around
Wakes in the breast the Poet's flame,
Whose glories shall the harp with warmth resound?
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
That, when no noisy cares intrude,
Dost breathe 'mid nature's quietude,
Bidding its charms with new-born lustre shine,
Who givest to earth a livelier hue,
To midnight skies a deeper blue,
SPIRIT, no other hymn than thine
Shall tremble from the
Clarshec's frame,
Whose strings neglected long,
Again shall echo to the song,
Shall hail th'inspiring nymph, whose holy power
Bids wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour.
Wakes in the breast the Poet's flame,
Whose glories shall the harp with warmth resound?
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
That, when no noisy cares intrude,
Dost breathe 'mid nature's quietude,
Bidding its charms with new-born lustre shine,
Who givest to earth a livelier hue,
To midnight skies a deeper blue,
SPIRIT, no other hymn than thine
27
Whose strings neglected long,
Again shall echo to the song,
Shall hail th'inspiring nymph, whose holy power
Bids wisdom and delight to bless the lonely hour.
See where most mild, most sad,
The goddess on her mountain throne
Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad,
Is soothed by gurgling waters near,
Or song of sky lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:
The scarce-heard hum of distant strife
Gives to her lonely votary's breast
An hallow'd calm of rest,
Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life.
Here Genius in fantastic trance
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with anxious eye
Upon some old romance,
'Till all the pomp of chivalry,
The visor quaint, the armed knight,
The princely dame, the tournay bright
Are present to his glance;—
And Fancy here delights to stray,
And shed around her smiles serene,
Not those alone that for the Poet play,
Too grandly, too divinely bright,
They pain with luxury of light!—
Here she exerts a gentler sway,
And consecrates to happiness the scene;
She breathes with soft controul
An holy sense of sober'd joy,
And sorrows that no more annoy
Are pleasant to the soul:—
The breast that throbb'd before too much
At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch,
Indulging here in calm repose
No change of shifting passions knows,
Thus when the winds with wanton play
Among the Alder's branches stray,
The twinkling leaves are seen
Give to the light their lively gray,
But when the breezes die away,
They shine in softest green;—
Oft, in that solemn silence of the breast,
When passions pause, and all is peace within,
There breathes a voice that cannot be represt,
That speaks to man of holiness—of sin;—
There breathes a voice the spirit to controul
With warning power, unfelt 'mid Pleasure's mirth;
Its accents are not of the earth—
'Tis GOD that speaketh to the SOUL!
The goddess on her mountain throne
Of rocks, with many-coloured lichens clad,
Is soothed by gurgling waters near,
Or song of sky lark wild and clear,
Or music's mellow tone:
The scarce-heard hum of distant strife
Gives to her lonely votary's breast
An hallow'd calm of rest,
Unruffled by the woes, above the mirth of life.
Here Genius in fantastic trance
Enjoys his wildest reverie,
Or pores with anxious eye
Upon some old romance,
'Till all the pomp of chivalry,
The visor quaint, the armed knight,
The princely dame, the tournay bright
Are present to his glance;—
And Fancy here delights to stray,
And shed around her smiles serene,
Not those alone that for the Poet play,
Too grandly, too divinely bright,
They pain with luxury of light!—
28
And consecrates to happiness the scene;
She breathes with soft controul
An holy sense of sober'd joy,
And sorrows that no more annoy
Are pleasant to the soul:—
The breast that throbb'd before too much
At Sorrow's wound, at Pleasure's touch,
Indulging here in calm repose
No change of shifting passions knows,
Thus when the winds with wanton play
Among the Alder's branches stray,
The twinkling leaves are seen
Give to the light their lively gray,
But when the breezes die away,
They shine in softest green;—
Oft, in that solemn silence of the breast,
When passions pause, and all is peace within,
There breathes a voice that cannot be represt,
That speaks to man of holiness—of sin;—
There breathes a voice the spirit to controul
With warning power, unfelt 'mid Pleasure's mirth;
Its accents are not of the earth—
'Tis GOD that speaketh to the SOUL!
Who hath not felt in some lone hour
Feelings sublimely sad
Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power?
Go! seek that man among the bad,
Go, seek him 'mid the heartless throng
Whom courtly luxury calls her own,
Bid him his worthless days prolong
Where thoughtless Pleasure haunts the throne;
Yet will there come an hour to him
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye-ball—weak and dim,
Gazing on former days, shall ache;
When solitude bids visions drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear—
When thoughts arise of errors past—
Of Vice, that Virtue's hopes could blast—
Of Passion's unresisted rage—
Of Youth, that thought not upon Age—
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But, like the flowers of Arab sands,
That wither'd in the closing hands.
Blame not the silent monitress
That thus the bosom would address—
Blame not the guardian Spirit sent
To call the guilty to repent—
Oh blame not her whose holy breath
Inspires with hopes from Heaven the soul that starts at Death!
Feelings sublimely sad
Steal o'er his spirit with resistless power?
Go! seek that man among the bad,
29
Whom courtly luxury calls her own,
Bid him his worthless days prolong
Where thoughtless Pleasure haunts the throne;
Yet will there come an hour to him
When anguish in his breast shall wake,
And that bright eye-ball—weak and dim,
Gazing on former days, shall ache;
When solitude bids visions drear
Of raptures, now no longer dear,
In gloomy ghastliness appear—
When thoughts arise of errors past—
Of Vice, that Virtue's hopes could blast—
Of Passion's unresisted rage—
Of Youth, that thought not upon Age—
Of earthly hopes, too fondly nurst,
That caught the giddy eye at first,
But, like the flowers of Arab sands,
That wither'd in the closing hands.
Blame not the silent monitress
That thus the bosom would address—
Blame not the guardian Spirit sent
To call the guilty to repent—
Oh blame not her whose holy breath
Inspires with hopes from Heaven the soul that starts at Death!
Are we indeed in solitude alone?
Are there not spirits hovering near
The lonely mind to cheer,
And breathe into the heart an holy tone?
Hath not the Poet heard with ear entranc'd
As, by some devious stream,
He lay in strange romantic dream,
Hath not he heard his harp faint echoing,
As if an Angel's hand had glanc'd
Along its every string?
Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this,
Bent from their homes of bliss,
To tell the mourner that they do not sleep
Within the grave's unbroken gloom,
The damp, dull silence of the tomb,
Oh come they not from Heaven to soothe the hearts that weep?—
Say are we then alone in solitude?
In Night's mid hour, when all around is still,
When hush'd is every passion rude,
What awful reveries the bosom fill!
In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke
On mortal's hallow'd lips, and on the eye
Visions of other days have broke,
Of days, that slumber still in deep futurity;
Such sights, and sounds as met his eye and ear,
When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer.
Are there not spirits hovering near
The lonely mind to cheer,
And breathe into the heart an holy tone?
30
As, by some devious stream,
He lay in strange romantic dream,
Hath not he heard his harp faint echoing,
As if an Angel's hand had glanc'd
Along its every string?
Have not the Dead, in such an hour as this,
Bent from their homes of bliss,
To tell the mourner that they do not sleep
Within the grave's unbroken gloom,
The damp, dull silence of the tomb,
Oh come they not from Heaven to soothe the hearts that weep?—
Say are we then alone in solitude?
In Night's mid hour, when all around is still,
When hush'd is every passion rude,
What awful reveries the bosom fill!
In such an hour the Prophet's tone hath woke
On mortal's hallow'd lips, and on the eye
Visions of other days have broke,
Of days, that slumber still in deep futurity;
Such sights, and sounds as met his eye and ear,
When slept in Patmos' isle the solitary Seer.
Say not that it is solitude
When stands in loneliness the Good
Amid surrounding enemies—
When Pain, and Woe, and Malice rise,
When Tyranny hath fixed his fate,
Even then in that eventful hour
Shall Virtue triumph still, and Power
Shall envy him she still must hate!
Was there when fearless Sidney fell
No angel form to guard his cell?
And when around the tyrant's throne
The courtly sons of Flattery stood,
Oh saw he then their pomp alone?
Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan?
Gaz'd not his eye on Sidney's blood?
Oh heard he not—tho' Music's breath,
Tho' rapture's voice his soul address—
Oh heard he not a voice of Death,
And all was loneliness?
But Sidney, there were those who stood
Around to guard thy solitude;
And Martyr, there were thoughts of healing
That on thy wounded spirit gleam,
And many a proud and patriot feeling
Is mingling with thy dream;
Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid
The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud,
Unseen they stand, as when his foes amid
Elisha woke, and seem'd to Man's weak gaze
Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud
With cars, and arms of fire his seraph guardian blaze.
When stands in loneliness the Good
Amid surrounding enemies—
When Pain, and Woe, and Malice rise,
When Tyranny hath fixed his fate,
Even then in that eventful hour
Shall Virtue triumph still, and Power
Shall envy him she still must hate!
31
No angel form to guard his cell?
And when around the tyrant's throne
The courtly sons of Flattery stood,
Oh saw he then their pomp alone?
Dwelt not his ear on Sidney's groan?
Gaz'd not his eye on Sidney's blood?
Oh heard he not—tho' Music's breath,
Tho' rapture's voice his soul address—
Oh heard he not a voice of Death,
And all was loneliness?
But Sidney, there were those who stood
Around to guard thy solitude;
And Martyr, there were thoughts of healing
That on thy wounded spirit gleam,
And many a proud and patriot feeling
Is mingling with thy dream;
Angelic hosts surround thee, and forbid
The dew of selfish fear thine eye to cloud,
Unseen they stand, as when his foes amid
Elisha woke, and seem'd to Man's weak gaze
Alone, till bursting from the tempest's shroud
With cars, and arms of fire his seraph guardian blaze.
Oh thou, whose influence breathes thro' solitude
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
With all thy warmth inflame
A breast, that long in no unholy mood
The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed;
Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath view'd
The beauteous scene of earth, and sea, and sky,
But Wisdom lives in all that I descry;—
All that I hear is speaking to my breast,
The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay,
All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay,
Dwell in my soul, indelibly imprest;
Even now, the view of yonder ruinous tower,
Whose fissur'd walls admit the moon's cold beams,
Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams
Most suited to the sober hour;
Mine eye beholds those early days,
When shining in the pride of power
They burst upon the gaze;—
But soon like Man the turret falls,
The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls,
Sees o'er its strength the wild flower rise,
Hears from its heights the night-bird's cries,
And, musing sadly, learns to scan
The vice and vanity of Man;—
But from this lonely dream of earth
What feelings spring to sudden birth;
No more the pilgrim looks beneath,
For him new hopes, new raptures breathe,
The soul beholds new worlds before it rise,
Soars from the mists of earth, and communes with the skies!
SPIRIT, whate'er thy name,
With all thy warmth inflame
A breast, that long in no unholy mood
The loveliness of Nature's charms hath wooed;
Long with no idle gaze mine eye hath view'd
32
But Wisdom lives in all that I descry;—
All that I hear is speaking to my breast,
The thunder's crash, the lark's enlivening lay,
All Nature's sights and sounds, or sad or gay,
Dwell in my soul, indelibly imprest;
Even now, the view of yonder ruinous tower,
Whose fissur'd walls admit the moon's cold beams,
Sheds on my bosom melancholy dreams
Most suited to the sober hour;
Mine eye beholds those early days,
When shining in the pride of power
They burst upon the gaze;—
But soon like Man the turret falls,
The pilgrim mourns beneath its walls,
Sees o'er its strength the wild flower rise,
Hears from its heights the night-bird's cries,
And, musing sadly, learns to scan
The vice and vanity of Man;—
But from this lonely dream of earth
What feelings spring to sudden birth;
No more the pilgrim looks beneath,
For him new hopes, new raptures breathe,
The soul beholds new worlds before it rise,
Soars from the mists of earth, and communes with the skies!
FINIS.
| Ode to fancy; with other poems | |