The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The next day of my pilgrimage was a day of storm and cloud,
And the heavens were shadow'd over as a dead man in his shroud;
And, onward driven by the furious storm, the clouds swept through the sky,
As rolls within its bony cave the frenzied madman's eye.
Yea, horribly and grim they roll'd along the bellowing blast,
As rolls about a mighty ship bereft of sail and mast;
And fitfully the sun shone forth with a wild and ghastly gleam,
Fireless and cold, as a dead man's eye in the lonely murderer's dream;
And straggling clouds that had put on the gloomy garb of night,
Seem'd fiends and demons burst from hell, to my distemper'd sight.

With such black clouds above me, and with such dread storms around,
I wander'd through this wilderness, whose limits had no bound,—
A drear and boundless wilderness, which, far as eye could see,
Was encircled by the dimness of the heaven's immensity.

And o'er that wild and dreary waste, I cast an anxious glance,
Anxious as when, in dreams, starts up the sleeper from his trance;
An eager and a searching glance o'er that vast wild I cast,
As eager and as keen as though that look had been my last.

No human form could I espy—no habitation there;
But only three black castle walls, most miserably bare;
No weed, no shrub, no wild-flower cast its verdure o'er the gloom,
And all the stones were mouldered, like bones within the tomb;
And yet these weedless, mossless walls stood gazing up on high,
And seem'd as firm as proudest towers that ever mocked the sky;
And nigh, two rotten, leafless trees stood staring on each other,
And there they hiss'd with the hissing wind as brothers to a brother;
And I felt as a little child doth feel, when it looks on the raving sea;
For oh, cold, and sad, and withering was that desolateness to me.

Away, and away, I wandered o'er that far and desert waste—
I went as if my hope in heaven depended on my haste.

And all the long and wearied night I hurried on my way,
For I sicken'd at the dreariness I had beheld that day.
And still the clouds were o'er the sky, and still the storms raved on,—
You might have deem'd hell's hosts were here, with their lord Apollyon.
And still another day and night I buffeted along,
And still no human face I saw those desert wilds among.
On the third night, way-worn and sad, I laid me down to rest,
The frowning heavens my canopy, my bed the desert waste;
And visions strange came over me, like sunbeams o'er the sea,
Which, ere my tale is finished, shall all narrated be.

And, lo!—next morn when I awoke, the clouds and storms were gone,—
Like an infant's face was the smiling sky, so lovingly it shone!
The godlike sun, in glory there, walk'd o'er his azure course;
And the balmy breeze was odour-fill'd from its own sweet unknown source:
Perfumes, which seem'd as if they were from some sweet garden nigh,
Came full upon the burden'd air, as love-thoughts on a sigh.
And sweeter wax'd the odorous gale as the wilderness I sped:
'Twas strange as if soft words had come from the lips of the mould'ring dead.

At length—oh, heavenlything!—I saw, afar unto the west,
A glorious sight, which yet doth dwell like heaven within my breast;—
It was the first green lovely thing, that yet had struck my sight,
And I felt as a loosen'd captive feels when he looks on heaven's bless'd light;
I ran as runs the wild-deer when he hears the clarion ring,
Or the Arab's thirsty war-horse when he snorts the desert spring.

'Twas a lone and beauteous flower which shed such perfume on the air,
Like a lovely herb which angels love it stood in grandeur there.
I thought on the rose and the violet, and I thought on the hare-bell blue,
And the sensitive plant, and anemone with its cup of silver dew;
And I thought on the tulip and hyacinth, and the flowers beneath the wave,
And the poison-staying asphodel erst sown on the dead man's grave;
And I thought on all earth's fragrant flowers, and many and sweet are they—
Of flowers of passion, and scent, and love, which breathe in the poet's lay:
But, oh! dearer, sweeter, lovelier far, was that odour-breathing flower,
Which shed such perfume, faint and deep, the dreary desert o'er!

Its leaves were rimm'd as the eve-clouds are, with the sun's last parting beam,
A soft, a rich, and golden shade, and bright as a moonfill'd stream;
And a warm and odorous scent breathed up, like a breeze of the gentle west,
And a rosy glow tinged every leaf, like the blush on a maiden's breast;
It seem'd as a rare and beauteous flower just dropt from the summer sky,
And a dew-drop dwelt in its rosy cup, like the tear in an angel's eye.

A bubbling fount beside its foot gave music deep and wild,
Gentle, and soft, and musical as the breathing of a child;
And its crystal depths no eye could pierce though clear as the moonbeams light,
And its heaving breast was full and fair as a virgin's bosom bright;
And the delicate murmuring melody, which at every throb was heard,
Was deeper, sweeter, more intense, than e'er was sung by bird.
And I knelt me down by that lovely flower, and I knelt by that crystal spring,
And I drank from that stream whose melody was deeper than bird might sing;
To the golden rim of the stately plant, I gave one fervent kiss,
For I could not help but deeply love this flower of the wilderness.

And again the power of gentle sleep o'er my weary body came,
And again my spirit soar'd away to the land of thought and dream;
For the odour of that gentle herb dwelt sweetly in my breast,
And the music of the fountain near, lull'd me to peace and rest;
And I dreamt (so strange are all our dreams, so foolish, and so vain)
That all the glories I had seen were phantoms of the brain—
The wild unmeaning phantoms of the weak and wandering mind,
Which float along with our dreamy thoughts like vapours with the wind!

Even such are all things of the earth: grief, vanity, and care,
A glittering thought, a bright-hued dream, as empty as the air!
The things we see we know not of—we know not how we live—
We know not how the sun, and moon, and the stars such glory give.
A thousand things are on the earth, in the air, and in the sea,
Yet e'er to weak and foolish man have they been deep mystery;
And all we know in this selfish world, is that life is a desert drear,
And that sin, and sorrow, and gnawing care, and anger and pale lipp'd fear,

And passion, and hate, and murder foul, have their habitation here!
And that pride, wealth, power, are only walls, all rotten, black, and bare,
Which stand alone in nakedness with their heads in sky and air;
And that men resemble the leafless trees which on each other hiss,
And again are hiss'd and groan'd upon by the storms of the wilderness;
And that beauty, virtue, innocence, are like a lovely flower,
One only, solitary sweet, the raging desert o'er;
And that faith, and peace, and charity, are like a crystal spring,
Which to the sad and sorrowing heart deep melody doth bring;
That on this earth we crawl about, the phantoms of a breath,
The subjects of the mighty king, the giant conqueror—Death.