Tasso and the Sisters Tasso's Spirit: The Nuptials of Juno: The Skeletons: The Spirits of the Ocean. Poems, By Thomas Wade |
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 | Tasso and the Sisters |  |
Widely apart the portals spread,
Whose hinges now no longer shed
Their music on the murmuring Sea,
As wild as music e'er may be;—
But all was stillness, and a light,
Dim as the hues that herald night,
(Those tints crepuscular, obscure
Which to mute thought the gazer lure)
Within, without its shade o'ercast,
And o'er the Ocean's bosom past,—
And all was stirless as the flowers
Of Flora's most sequestered bowers.
Wide ope the portals—Who, with brow
Betokening an undying woe,
Sits there in silence and in gloom,
Aye musing on his changeless doom?
'Tis he—the Rider of the Steed,
The ruler of his fiery speed:
He sits upon a lofty seat,
With countless gems beneath his feet;
Within his eye and o'er his face
As dark a sorrow still hath place
As when he past along the Deep
To wake the Infant from its sleep,
And bore the smiling babe away
Far, far beneath the Ocean-spray.
—And who is he that near him stands,
Attendant on his mute commands,
With eyes that hold as wild a glow
As lightning on the sky can throw,—
With glossy hair, and lips, whose form
Tell that their owner's soul is warm?—
'Tis he—the Child, who late was borne
Along the mighty Ocean's track,
From summit of tall rock forlorn,
Upon the milk-white Courser's back;—
Now waxed to that tumultuous age,
When Passion opes her burning page,
Bids reckless Youth its words admire
And catch a portion of their fire.
As oft upon a Winter's-night
The heavens are black—the stars are bright,—
Tho' dark his eye and dark the hues
That o'er his face their shade transfuse,
Within, within there lurks a spirit
Which oft doth mirthful mood inherit,
Stealing across each wilder throb
Of passion, that hath power to rob
The bosom of its joyous dress,
And turn it to a wilderness.
Whose hinges now no longer shed
Their music on the murmuring Sea,
As wild as music e'er may be;—
But all was stillness, and a light,
Dim as the hues that herald night,
(Those tints crepuscular, obscure
Which to mute thought the gazer lure)
Within, without its shade o'ercast,
And o'er the Ocean's bosom past,—
And all was stirless as the flowers
Of Flora's most sequestered bowers.
Wide ope the portals—Who, with brow
Betokening an undying woe,
67
Aye musing on his changeless doom?
'Tis he—the Rider of the Steed,
The ruler of his fiery speed:
He sits upon a lofty seat,
With countless gems beneath his feet;
Within his eye and o'er his face
As dark a sorrow still hath place
As when he past along the Deep
To wake the Infant from its sleep,
And bore the smiling babe away
Far, far beneath the Ocean-spray.
—And who is he that near him stands,
Attendant on his mute commands,
With eyes that hold as wild a glow
As lightning on the sky can throw,—
With glossy hair, and lips, whose form
Tell that their owner's soul is warm?—
'Tis he—the Child, who late was borne
Along the mighty Ocean's track,
From summit of tall rock forlorn,
Upon the milk-white Courser's back;—
Now waxed to that tumultuous age,
When Passion opes her burning page,
Bids reckless Youth its words admire
And catch a portion of their fire.
As oft upon a Winter's-night
The heavens are black—the stars are bright,—
Tho' dark his eye and dark the hues
That o'er his face their shade transfuse,
Within, within there lurks a spirit
Which oft doth mirthful mood inherit,
68
Of passion, that hath power to rob
The bosom of its joyous dress,
And turn it to a wilderness.
| Tasso and the Sisters | |