 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
151
TO AN EARTHLY BEAUTY.
No fairy I deem thee that paces by night
O'er a brook's pebbled bank, or a grass-covered height
No spirit art thou such as gleam through the deep,
Or inhabit the pearl-builded palace of sleep;
I may not believe thee the fiction that breaks
On the poet's wild eye when his morning first wakes;
No shadow that haunts on some sea-girdled ground
That can melt in a sunbeam or soar in a sound.
But a mortal I deem thee, a child of our earth,
With a lip full of song and an eye full of mirth.
No chain may I find in a single bright hair,
Nor deem that a halo is hovering there;
Yet methinks (though thy lip hath more Sappho than Eve)
I could well from thy hand stolen apples receive;
And thy heart hath a corner where mine could have lain,
With a sigh or a song for the clank of my chain.
O'er a brook's pebbled bank, or a grass-covered height
No spirit art thou such as gleam through the deep,
Or inhabit the pearl-builded palace of sleep;
I may not believe thee the fiction that breaks
On the poet's wild eye when his morning first wakes;
No shadow that haunts on some sea-girdled ground
That can melt in a sunbeam or soar in a sound.
But a mortal I deem thee, a child of our earth,
With a lip full of song and an eye full of mirth.
No chain may I find in a single bright hair,
Nor deem that a halo is hovering there;
Yet methinks (though thy lip hath more Sappho than Eve)
I could well from thy hand stolen apples receive;
And thy heart hath a corner where mine could have lain,
With a sigh or a song for the clank of my chain.
Yet think not I prize what those glances reveal
That awake in the eyes what the heart cannot feel;
Thy voice hath a cadence that lingers on time,
And we suffer in prose all we picture in rhyme;
Though fancy bring forth, it is fact that conceives;
If we reach not the fruit we are sprinkled with leaves;
The spell may be surest when feelings come forth,
Like a lily resisting the winds of the north;
When the cheek's crimson summer is mantled with frost,
And hope in the spring of its promise is lost.
But give me the look that steals out from thy lash
When the clear lid half closes, refining the flash!
It is then that we read on thy bosom's pure page
In a minute much more than is told in an age;
Then the language of life we interpret in song,
And sin against right in sweet sighs for the wrong—
When beauties like waves wash their wealth on our shore,
And the grave of one joy is the cradle of more.
That awake in the eyes what the heart cannot feel;
Thy voice hath a cadence that lingers on time,
And we suffer in prose all we picture in rhyme;
152
If we reach not the fruit we are sprinkled with leaves;
The spell may be surest when feelings come forth,
Like a lily resisting the winds of the north;
When the cheek's crimson summer is mantled with frost,
And hope in the spring of its promise is lost.
But give me the look that steals out from thy lash
When the clear lid half closes, refining the flash!
It is then that we read on thy bosom's pure page
In a minute much more than is told in an age;
Then the language of life we interpret in song,
And sin against right in sweet sighs for the wrong—
When beauties like waves wash their wealth on our shore,
And the grave of one joy is the cradle of more.
Oh, breathe on the flame so enkindled in mirth,
Could it last it might dry all the tears upon earth,
And teach us that woman can sow through our sleep
A harvest of visions that sages might reap.
And well I discern, as crowned promises pass,
Like Banquo's bright issue, thou bearest a glass,
Where graces uncounted and sparkling are seen
Like stars in the sea when no clouds soar between.
Oh, if here I could stay for a century on,
Till all that now dazzles is scattered and gone,
When borne to heaven's gate through the gardens of air,
Methinks I should ask—‘if thy spirit was there?’
Could it last it might dry all the tears upon earth,
And teach us that woman can sow through our sleep
A harvest of visions that sages might reap.
And well I discern, as crowned promises pass,
Like Banquo's bright issue, thou bearest a glass,
Where graces uncounted and sparkling are seen
Like stars in the sea when no clouds soar between.
Oh, if here I could stay for a century on,
Till all that now dazzles is scattered and gone,
When borne to heaven's gate through the gardens of air,
Methinks I should ask—‘if thy spirit was there?’
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |