University of Virginia Library

There is a vast deep lake, an inland sea
Girdled with lofty mountains round about,
Precipitous—whose dark immensity
Whate'er beyond them lieth, doth shut out.
No line hath e'er, no far descending lead
The depths of that great hollow fathomed.
'Tis thought its waters, like the Caspian's, take,
Long under ground, their secret, silent way,
And all at once in some far country break
Up from their channels dark, into the light of day.
And like the Caspian, flux, reflux of tide,
Nor visible outlet is there in that sea,
Though rivers rushing down the mountain's side
Do pour therein their streams continually;
And floods of mighty rains, and melted snows,
Feed that great gulf that never overflows:
On whose broad bosom stately navies ride,
And many barks thereon are sailing far and wide.

Of divers fashions, freightage, bulk are they—
Some gallant ships, by steady seamen manned—
Some painted shallops, all with streamers gay,
Where the young helmsman steers with careless hand.
Some with rich merchandise and precious ore
Deep laden—others on their decks that bear
Silk awnings, underneath whose crimson glare
The wine-cup's rubied nectar sparkles high,
With roses wreathed—whence sound of revelry,
Viol and lute, proceedeth evermore:
And as they float along, the summer sigh
Wafts from their decks a gale of Araby,
And mellow horns, and full-toned hautboys pour
Sweet sounds that linger long, round islet, rock, and shore.

And many a solitary mariner
Launcheth his little bark, and to the gale,
If lent a fav'ring breath, doth lightly stir,
Spreads the small canvass of his single sail.
And many a one, with harder toil doth ply
His ceaseless oars—and many a one doth lie
(Keeping his painful balance, hapless wretch!)
On some rude raft—where scarcely he may stretch
His cramped limbs, or urge with effort strong
The stroke that works his way so tediously along.

Who would not deem a wretch forlorn as these,
To death, to certain death, were hast'ning on?
Rise for a moment but a fresher breeze,
A rougher wave, his crazy planks are gone—
Yet such a one, will oft as in despite
Of seeming fate, a shelt'ring harbour gain;
While the proud bark, that o'er the billows white
Bounds like a war-horse eager for the fight,
Rejoicing in his beauty and his might,
Varies her course, and spreads her wings in vain.
A little cloud ascendeth from the sea—
A hollow murmur soundeth sullenly—
Night gathers round her, waves arise, winds roar—
The humble raft is safe—the bark is seen no more!

Full many a perilous emprise awaits
On such as navigate that land-locked sea—
Eddies and whirlpools, currents, narrow straits,
And hidden shoals, and sunken rocks there be.
And human prudence ill can guard, I ween,
'Gainst dangers, sudden, partial, unforeseen,
That in a moment, from its placid sleep,
Stirs up the boiling bosom of the deep—
A liquid column shooting from below
Joins its proud capital, that dark, dense cloud—
Now for your lives, affrighted seamen! now
Ply all your oars, and all your canvass crowd—
In vain—the dreadful pillar of the sea,
With giant stride, advanceth furiously—
They're in its vortex—one loud burst like thunder,
The vessel's whirled aloft—dashed downwards—rent asunder!

Oft from the bottom, with loud hissing roar,
Above the waves, volcanic mounts arise,
Whose horrid mouths, whence streams of lava pour,
Shoot up their red artillery to the skies,
And other mounts as suddenly appear,
Not like those dread creations, forms of fear,
But low, smooth islets, gleaming to the sun,
Like pastures lately from the waters won—
There land some blithe adventurers, and prepare
The genial feast, the gay carouse, to share;
When lo!—from every lip the colour flies,
From every heart, life's hurried streams retreat—
Each question each, with horror-speaking eyes;
The living island quakes beneath their feet!
The boat! the boat!—'tis drifted far away—
Down, down the monster dives, and fathoms down sink they.

But time were short, and words would fail, to tell
The snares and perils of that treach'rous lake:
At times so smooth, without a billowy swell,
An infant might thereon its pleasure take—
And it becometh oft a stagnant sea,
A sea of glass—oh! worse thereon to be,
Than in the wildest tempest—worse to lie,
Beneath the glowing, glaring, cloudless sky,
Upon the dull dead water, thick with weeds,
Where in foul myriads fat corruption breeds,
And flames of putrid vapour, through the night,
Crawl on the oily waves with lurid light—
Oh worse that stifling calm, than rudest jar,
Direct conflicting crash of elemental war!

But there's a lovely state of calm repose,
Peaceful inaction, on that wondrous sea;
And many a solitary dreamer knows
(Oh dear to him!) the silent luxury,
Along some shelving, pebbly shore, to lie
With up-turned face watching with ear and eye
The little waves come rippling to his feet,
The white clouds sailing like a merchant fleet
Along the verge of the blue firmament:
Most beauteous, when with roseate colours blent,
Reflected blushes of the crimson west—
When the great glorious source of light and heat,
The sun, into the chambers of his rest,
Majestically slow, sinks down on ocean's breast.

Spread o'er the bosom of the lake there lie
Numberless islands, differing each from each
(Albeit pavilioned by the self-same sky)
In aspect, soil, production—these to reach
Those restless prows incessantly do ply,
And mostly for the loftier land they try,
(Contending oft with currents, winds, and tides,)
Passing the little lowly havens by,
Green isles, where sweet security abides—
Good Heaven! how blinded wretched mortals be
To their own good—with what perversity
From reason's, virtue's light they turn away,
After their dark imaginings, to stray
From innocence, peace, hope, and happiness for aye.

Towards one proud isle innumerous voyagers steer,
A rocky mountain, towering o'er the deep,
Where the vexed surges, checked in mid career,
Lash with incessant din the ramparts steep—
Abrupt and rugged, from the waves, arise
Those rocky bulwarks, till they scale the skies,
And on the summit, reared by genii hands,
Amongst the clouds, a gorgeous temple stands.
Up to that shrine, with eager eyes, they gaze,
The dauntless pilgrims that arrive below—
Up to that shrine they toil a thousand ways,
By steep, rude stairs, or rugged paths that go
Beneath impending rocks, or skirting now,
High o'er the boiling flood, some loose crag's beetling brow.

Many are washed from off the landing place,
A shelving, slippery ledge and many fall
From their loose footing on the crumbling wall,
And many, just as they have won the race,
To the throned idol's golden footstool crawl,
Drop down and die.—She sitteth there in state,
And the four winds that on her bidding wait
To the four quarters of the world proclaim,
As each arrives, the favor'd votary's name.
Yea! and his name who dies arriving there,
Loudest of all, their brazen trumps declare.
And for this guerdon, mortal creatures strain
Their vital sinews—strive with peril, pain,
Suspicion, hatred;—from all sweets refrain,
Of love's contagious softness:—for this meed,
They wait, watch, languish, starve, encounter, bleed,
Wrestle with fortune, fight against despair,
Barter their hopes eternal bliss to share,
And all for one poor prize, one blast of empty air.

Not distant far, a sister-island rears
Its lofty head—a huge o'erhanging rock.—
Leagues off at sea, the startled pilot hears
The breakers mining with perpetual shock
Its hollow base; yet boldly on he steers,
With thousands more. Some perish instantly,
And some surmount the dangers of the sea,
And some, by hollow, dark, and winding ways
Up to the top a tedious passage find;
Some climb from crag to crag, but no one stays
To help his fellow toiling up behind.
Careless of any interest save his own,
Friend jostles friend, or hurls him rudely down
To gain his footing: so, by patience, strength,
Or favouring fortune, some attain at length
The goal of their desires, the tower of might,
Whose massive grandeur crests that dizzy height.
And there, the gloomy guardians of the place
Before the gate dispensing favors stand:—
What gasping eagerness in every face,
What craving haste extendeth every hand
To clutch the glittering symbols of command.
Crowns, truncheons, maces, toys of all degrees,
All fashions, forms, those greedy claimants seize.
Yet each, unsatisfied, with grudging eyes
Examineth askance, his neighbour's prize:
On his own lot, disdainfully looks down,
And he who grasps a truncheon coveteth a crown.
For these twin isles, though thousand shallops bear
As many towards a third, their course direct:
No dreadful surf obstructs the landing there,
But landed, many hapless souls are wrecked
By divers chances, when they least expect
Ought of untoward accident to meet—
The hollow earth gives in beneath their feet,
And down they sink engulfed—or led astray
By igni fatui from the beaten way,
They founder in the marshes of despair.
There is a heavy dulness in the air
Of that sad isle: no shrub of lively green
On its bare hills, and barren plains is seen.
No merry, tuneful bird alighteth there:
No daisied green sward paints the river's brink,
(A sluggish stream,) no herds come there to drink:
But many human eyes intently pore
Upon its waters.—They on Ganges' shore,
That ancient sacred flood, less fervently adore.
For through the shallows of the island stream,
Its golden sands and sparkling pebbles gleam:
And when the hills are swept by heavy rains,
Their furrowed sides reveal the streaky veins
Of precious ore—and in their entrails deep,
Wealth, such as mind hath ne'er imagined,
Is treasured up.—To amass a glittering heap
From mine, from mountain, or from river's bed,
The island pilgrim toileth evermore—
But as he pileth up the precious store,
Strange symptoms of disease, unknown before,
Seize on his heart:—a cold contraction there,
An aching, craving, wearing sense of care,
A deadness of the finer faculties—
Oh, Heaven! that any living, for such prize
Of paltry worth, should ever sacrifice
All that to bless this earthly state is given—
Social affection, kindly charities,
Sweet peace (the peace of God,) and the sure hope of Heaven!
I may not tarry every isle to name,
So many on that liquid plain there be:
But shame it were, in truth, insensate shame,
To pass unnoticed, unobservantly
One little spot, the loveliest spot that lies
Beneath the sun, on this side Paradise—
'Tis an oasis on the watery waste!—
An isle of palms and fountains!—Would ye taste
The clearest stream, that hath it source below,
Pilgrims of earth! to those pure fountains go.
No rocks or mountains, warring with the skies
Like rebel giants, frowningly arise
In that fair isle—but woody uplands skreen
Warm, flowery vales, that nestle in between,
And leafy glades—and every now and then
The little rills, that water every glen,
Winding abruptly from their coverts green,
(Like modest merit oft unseen they run,)
Glance out like sparkling silver in the sun.
And flocks are feeding on the green hill side,
And herds are standing in the shallow streams,
And many a spire, (a soul-directing guide)
Points up to heav'n—and many a cottage gleams
White in the sunshine, round each sacred dome,
Like flocks at rest beside their master's home.
There happy age, by filial duty cheered,
Setteth as calmly as a summer's day—
Blest childhood there, by love parental reared,
Riseth as jocund as a morn of May—
There wedded love, fond, faithful, pure, sedate,
Like cloudless noon, doth hold its high estate,
And friendship joyeth in her own mild light,
Like the clear moon on some sweet autumn night.
Brothers and sisters, like twin stars emit
Their mingled radiance—so all hearts are knit
In one great chain of closely woven ties,
Whence love in all its rich varieties—
Gradations infinite—throughout the isle
Sheddeth, diffuseth one perennial smile.
Beats there a heart that doth not feel with me?
Such spot is heaven on earth, if heaven on earth can be.

I have dwelt there—but one disastrous day
Drove me for ever from that lovely land;
And now my little boat doth drift away
(Steered by a reckless, an unskilful hand)
With ev'ry current, like an idle weed,
That floating on, no human eye doth heed.
Lately I drifted towards an island bay
Whence dulcet sounds had reach'd me oft before:
Wond'ring I listened—long entranc'd I lay,
Then moored beside the laurel-fringed shore.
And soon, such bursts of heav'nly harmony,
On mine o'erpowered, astonished sense 'gan pour
As mortal ear, methought, ne'er heard before—
At first, a grand, full, choral symphony
Rolled its rich volume on the echoes round—
Then single voices sang melodiously,
Each to the harp or lyre's according sound
The gentle airs were hushed—the waving trees
With all their many-voiced leaves were still:
Silent was ev'ry little tuneful bill;
The very echos paused upon the hill
As if they feared the closing strain to seize,
And miss or mar the next prelúsive thrill.
And scaly creatures, dwellers of the seas,
Came floating round, as if to take their fill
Of that entrancing melody—with these,
The dolphin came, attracted once again,
By the strange sweetness of a mortal strain.
And I! and I! o'ermastered by the spell,
Caught from the shore a hollow sounding shell,
And strung it loosely with a fibrous weed,
And with a hurried hand of trembling speed
Swept the rude harp—but started back dismayed
At its first sound—then listened—and again
Came o'er mine ear that soul-inspiring strain,
And I once more impulsively assayed
Mine own faint melody—in vain! in vain!
Wand'ring and weak, the soulless sounds arose,
And then, again, the full, deep gust of those—
Oh! 'twas a contrast more than heart could bear:
I hid my face, and wept in weak despair;
And like a wayward infant, crossed at play,
Crushed the unconscious shell, and tore the strings away.

One island yet—I have unsung the rest—
One briefly noticed, and my task is o'er—
It may be called “The Island of the Blest”—
Oh! with the tents upon that happy shore,
That mine were pitched securely—never more
To be razed thence—there only—last and best—
Must be my home, my refuge and my rest—
Perpetual twilight, meek, serene, and pale,
Gently enfoldeth with her matron veil
(E'en as a mother foldeth to her breast
Her sleeping babe) that island of the blest.
Not dusky twilight—but that lovely hue
Just as the sun hath faded in the west,
That softly stealing o'er the evening dew
Blends ev'ry harsher outline on the sky
In one soft tone of perfect harmony.
In that calm place, where meditation dwells
With cheerful hope, sweet sound of solemn bells
Comes frequent on the pleased ear—and oft
A chant of human voices, silver soft,
Deep, rapt'rous, full ascendeth to the skies,
The incense of perpetual sacrifice.
But they who sojourn in that happy isle
No useless life of slothful quiet lead:
For other wants and weaknesses they toil,
And many a one, at his worst hour of need,
Hath proved, what precious balsam they can pour
Into his fest'ring wounds—and evermore
(Bearing where'er they go, with faith divine,
A mystic cross, their banner, and their sign,)
From isle to isle, those holy pilgrims roam,
Seeking the maimed, diseased, despised, and poor,
Those whom the world forsakes or cannot cure.
All such they seek—and to their island home
Bear the poor outcasts—gently tend them there,
Bind up their wounds, speak peace to their despair,
And if the sufferers faint, complain, repine,
Uphold before their eyes that sacred sign,
The mystic cross—and they, with faith of soul
Who look thereon, are presently made whole—
Oh with the tents upon that happy shore
That mine were pitch'd at last, and firm for evermore!