The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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SKETCH OF AN EVENING. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
SKETCH OF AN EVENING.
Such were the heavens my earliest visions saw,
And such the sea, the air, the rivers, strong;
Nature wore then a glory o'er her head,
Her palaces all echo'd unto song.
And such the sea, the air, the rivers, strong;
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Her palaces all echo'd unto song.
Yet now I surely feel a wilder joy,
I see more greatly, and not less profound;
I know that God hath traced this picture bright
With his own hand—this glory without bound.
I see more greatly, and not less profound;
I know that God hath traced this picture bright
With his own hand—this glory without bound.
Lo! how bright gold inlays heaven's glittering floor!
See how fine lines, of heavenly radiance, stream;
Lightning with water blended—so the sun
Such grandeur bears him on his throne supreme.
See how fine lines, of heavenly radiance, stream;
Lightning with water blended—so the sun
Such grandeur bears him on his throne supreme.
And lo! that river, with its one still dye,
That light unchanging of the heavenly blue,
Flowing, immortal, through celestial lands,
With heaven's eternal and unchanging hue:
That light unchanging of the heavenly blue,
Flowing, immortal, through celestial lands,
With heaven's eternal and unchanging hue:
So is the sight most fair, the mingled light,
The light, the darkness, moulded all in all,
The yellow sun, the rivers, the blue hills,
The groves, the meadows, and the waterfall.
The light, the darkness, moulded all in all,
The yellow sun, the rivers, the blue hills,
The groves, the meadows, and the waterfall.
That is a palace, where the gods might dwell;
That flow of stream might bear a seraph's bark;
Those are Elysian bowers, that bloom for aye;
And lo! the pastures green, folding the forests dark!
That flow of stream might bear a seraph's bark;
Those are Elysian bowers, that bloom for aye;
And lo! the pastures green, folding the forests dark!
And Ocean, in the deathly hush, doth sing,
With voices that do sound of every shore,
And sound into the soul a marriage bell
Of music, that shall live for evermore.
With voices that do sound of every shore,
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Of music, that shall live for evermore.
What joy ecstatic fills this wondering soul!
I have no voice for this enduring feast—
Too large for utterance seem my raptures strong,
That swell the heart's blood, labouring in my breast.
I have no voice for this enduring feast—
Too large for utterance seem my raptures strong,
That swell the heart's blood, labouring in my breast.
But thou, glad Evening! other days will come,
When those great impulses shall find a tongue,
Not all in vain be this wild youth-time's glow,
'Mid seraph utterings—that shall yet be sung.
When those great impulses shall find a tongue,
Not all in vain be this wild youth-time's glow,
'Mid seraph utterings—that shall yet be sung.
| The bard, and minor poems | |