The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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MY PEN.
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
145
MY PEN.
Nothing in the earth or sea
Ever lent itself to me,
As an agency to give
Shape to thought that it might live;
As an implement to stay
Fancy on her hidden way,
Turning every tone of hers
Into sparkling characters.
Whence I drew the pliant quill
That hath compassed my will?
Flying fondly here and there
As a feather on the air,
Sealing each unfinished spell,
Poesy's own Ariel.
Ever lent itself to me,
As an agency to give
Shape to thought that it might live;
As an implement to stay
Fancy on her hidden way,
Turning every tone of hers
Into sparkling characters.
Whence I drew the pliant quill
That hath compassed my will?
Flying fondly here and there
As a feather on the air,
Sealing each unfinished spell,
Poesy's own Ariel.
Not from light and loving wing
Fresh from the perfumed Spring,
Fanning the red cheek of Morn,
Plumed trophy have I torn.
Not from eagle or from lark,
Milky dove or raven dark;
Not from swallow, that forsakes
Heaven when adverse Winter wakes;
Not from song-souled nightingale,
With whose rich and raptured tale,
Since the evening stole above,
Poet's ears have fallen in love.
Fresh from the perfumed Spring,
Fanning the red cheek of Morn,
Plumed trophy have I torn.
Not from eagle or from lark,
Milky dove or raven dark;
Not from swallow, that forsakes
Heaven when adverse Winter wakes;
146
With whose rich and raptured tale,
Since the evening stole above,
Poet's ears have fallen in love.
Seas have offered up to men,
Trustingly, a diamond pen;
Point of crystal, fine and hard,
Many a window-pane hath marr'd,—
And 'tis oft the poet's curse
To mar his little light with verse.
But the light from heaven's halls
On my floor unbroken falls,
Narrow though my lattice seem
To admit the boundless beam;
And my fingers would despond
Guiding the rich diamond,
That with invincible incision
Mocks the thin and thought-like vision.
Trustingly, a diamond pen;
Point of crystal, fine and hard,
Many a window-pane hath marr'd,—
And 'tis oft the poet's curse
To mar his little light with verse.
But the light from heaven's halls
On my floor unbroken falls,
Narrow though my lattice seem
To admit the boundless beam;
And my fingers would despond
Guiding the rich diamond,
That with invincible incision
Mocks the thin and thought-like vision.
Some a glassy pen have found
In the revel's wizard round,
Tracing every word in wine
With a relic half divine—
Fragment of a cup let slip
From a foul and lying lip.
Others in the sapless stem
Of a blighted, bloomless flower,
Ministrant have won to them
Of a deep and moral power.
But the glass may pierce a vein,
And the stem a thorn retain;
Thus may gushing blood imbue
Things baptized in wine and dew.
In the revel's wizard round,
Tracing every word in wine
With a relic half divine—
Fragment of a cup let slip
From a foul and lying lip.
Others in the sapless stem
Of a blighted, bloomless flower,
Ministrant have won to them
Of a deep and moral power.
147
And the stem a thorn retain;
Thus may gushing blood imbue
Things baptized in wine and dew.
Yet though soon the glow may sink
From that warm and crimson ink,
Richer though it fade to-day,
Glittering tint by tint away,
Is such blood from martyred veins
Than a sea of golden grains:
Or the ink which traitors find—
Traitors to the heart and mind—
Which, like water that begets
Toads and aspics where it wets,
Wakes a spirit to disturb
Fragrant bud and healing herb.
From that warm and crimson ink,
Richer though it fade to-day,
Glittering tint by tint away,
Is such blood from martyred veins
Than a sea of golden grains:
Or the ink which traitors find—
Traitors to the heart and mind—
Which, like water that begets
Toads and aspics where it wets,
Wakes a spirit to disturb
Fragrant bud and healing herb.
Not a sunbeam in my quill,
Nor a tear-hung icicle;
Nor an arrow's instant light,
Sharp and fatal in its flight;
Not a trophy won from man,
Nor a splinter from a lady's fan
Steeped in fragrance. 'Tis indeed
But a frail and bending reed,
Plucked by a most listless hand
In a waste and flowerless land,
By the margin of a stream
Where the idle eddies gleam,
Even as hopes within the breast,
Dazzling as they drop to rest.
Nor a tear-hung icicle;
Nor an arrow's instant light,
Sharp and fatal in its flight;
Not a trophy won from man,
Nor a splinter from a lady's fan
Steeped in fragrance. 'Tis indeed
But a frail and bending reed,
Plucked by a most listless hand
In a waste and flowerless land,
By the margin of a stream
Where the idle eddies gleam,
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Dazzling as they drop to rest.
What is this uncultured waste
But my bosom's fruitless pride?
What the stream that sparkles past,
But its fleet and living tide?
Something in ourselves must be
Still our own dependency.
Yet the reed with which I write
Hath a magic power to bless-
Pouring through its tube a light
On my moral wilderness,
That the tempest is forgot
In a glad and golden lot.
But my bosom's fruitless pride?
What the stream that sparkles past,
But its fleet and living tide?
Something in ourselves must be
Still our own dependency.
Yet the reed with which I write
Hath a magic power to bless-
Pouring through its tube a light
On my moral wilderness,
That the tempest is forgot
In a glad and golden lot.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |