Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The mirth and music of the festal hall,
And sunshine of bright eyes, had past away;
And, till late slumber should mine own enthrall,
Circled with deep tranquillity I lay;
Thinking, (as Bards should think,) in amorous wise,
Of those sweet faces and love-beaming eyes.

II

And soon upon my weary soul descended
The dreamy sleep which is the Poet's waking;
But still before my fancy's eye were blended
The night's past joys, more rapturous still and taking
Unearthly glory from the gleams which come,
When sleeps the body, of the spirit's home.

III

I saw the many forms which I had deem'd
So fair that fairer nought on earth could be;
But now from out their Human Beauty stream'd
Effulgence as of Immortality;
And when they lifted up their gentle eyes,
I saw swift thoughts and winged phantasies

IV

Throng thro' those azure gates, like gathering stars
In summer-evening's sky; and when they spoke
A sound more touching than the wild guitar's,
Heard o'er the waters, on their lips awoke;
Which did my ear in such sweet music steep,
That my charm'd spirit could not choose but weep.

V

And then, methought, the Muse, (whom I adore,)
In that wild dream was standing by my side,
Who in her radiant hand a garland bore
Of all sweet flowers which Nature's hand hath dyed
And Nature's breath perfumed:—rich gems whose worth
Decks the maternal bosom of the earth.

VI

Methought the Muse laugh'd archly in my face
As she presented that fair wreath: “And now,”
Quoth she, “Sir Poet, 'tis thy task to place
My sacred garland on the worthiest brow
Of all that float, to-night, before thine eye,
In this so fair and gentle company.

VII

“Oh! pure and holy must the maiden be,
Whose brow may be encircled by that wreath,
Twined near the living spring of Castaly,
When the world's eye was slumber-seal'd—beneath
The cold, calm gaze of the Queen-Moon, whose look
No dream impure, no tainted thought can brook.

VIII

“And (for the Muses wove it) she must bear
The Muses' lightning in her radiant eyes,

Which (though most mirthful) must have tears to spare,
In graver moods, to gentlest sympathies;
She must be wise, imaginative, fair:—
Now say what brow shall this bright garland wear.”

IX

It was an awful thing, (as ye may guess,
Fair Ladies), to behold those visions bright,
Which swam encircled in such loveliness
As Spirits dream of, in my dazzled sight;
Seeking the worthiest forehead among them
Whose worst was worthy of a diadem.

X

And first two fair-hair'd sisters side by side
I saw—the graceful leaders of the dance:
Of gentle aspect, mild, and thoughtful-eyed;
And as I gazed on either countenance
Almost I deem'd that they that wreath might share,
And yet I felt a worthier brow was there.

XI

Next pass'd a delicate form, in whose deep eyes
Beam'd the tranquillity of wedded love;
Follow'd by one who, in more mirthful guise,
Did like a spirit of the breezes move.
Each was unutterably fair—and yet,
I knew for neither was that coronet.

XII

And then came one, the Fairy of the Hills,
With open brow and laughter-loving eye,
And voice whose sound was as the sound of rills
Gushing at summer-noon refreshingly;
And she bent on me her bright, laughing eyes,
As if, almost she would demand the prize,

XIII

But felt that one was worthier. Then there came
A grave-eyed maiden of most gentle mien,
Whose looks, elate with triumph, seem'd to claim,
Not for herself, the glory of the scene,
But for some honour'd friend.—As on she pass'd
Rose three bright forms—the loveliest and the last.

XIV

One was array'd in the last splendid gleam
Of parting childhood; on the verge she stood
Of that sweet age, when life's first fairy dream
Dissolves into the dawn of womanhood;
And to her soul's young gaze were still unfurl'd
Those radiant glimpses of an earlier world.

XV

The next had riper years; no longer child,
And yet scarce woman; restless was her eye,
And never, never hath on poet smiled
A look more full of youthful ecstasy.
It seem'd those wandering orbs could scarce repress
The springing tears of the soul's happiness.

XVI

But who is she the last of that fair band?—
Methinks the room grows bright as she advances,
As from the touch of an enchanter's wand;
And oh! what aspect can endure the glances,
The piercing glances of those sunny eyes,
Lit by gay dreams and rapturous phantasies?

XVII

On as she came, methought wild strains were heard
Of such sweet music, that my garland bent

Its quivering leaves, and every flow'ret stirr'd
And trembled in that sudden ravishment,
As if the Spring-breeze kiss'd it—This is she,
The child of Genius and of Poesy.

XVIII

Her Spirit was upon me, and I felt
The might, and gentleness, and majesty
Which in that fair and wild-eyed maiden dwelt;
And, in my dream, I hasten'd joyfully
Her brow to circle with the wreath divine.
Whose was that brow?—Ione, whose but thine.