The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
251
VISIONS OF SONG.
I love to be where the great have been,
Although no trace remaineth;
There's spirit enough to hallow the scene
In the memory it retaineth;
And the meanest flower that blossoms there
Hath value above the proud tube-rose
That but in a monarch's garden grows;
And its withered leaf will bear
High thoughts to all who on it gaze,
Like a charmed thing of elder days.
Although no trace remaineth;
There's spirit enough to hallow the scene
In the memory it retaineth;
And the meanest flower that blossoms there
Hath value above the proud tube-rose
That but in a monarch's garden grows;
And its withered leaf will bear
High thoughts to all who on it gaze,
Like a charmed thing of elder days.
252
I love to lie through the summer's day,
In the greenwood idly dreaming;
And call up the bards who have passed away:—
Was the vision no more than seeming?
As I gazed on the bright and frenzied eye,
Of the northern scald as he passed along,
Chaunting his burden of charmed song;
Or, the dim shade hurrying by,
Enwrapped in mists—a warrior form,
The northern spirit who ruled the storm?
In the greenwood idly dreaming;
And call up the bards who have passed away:—
Was the vision no more than seeming?
As I gazed on the bright and frenzied eye,
Of the northern scald as he passed along,
Chaunting his burden of charmed song;
Or, the dim shade hurrying by,
Enwrapped in mists—a warrior form,
The northern spirit who ruled the storm?
And sweet the gleam of the ferny glen,
And the wild race that were keeping
Their fairy revel, unmarked by men,
Save one, the bard who, sleeping
Under the shade of the Eildon tree,
Had many a vision he might not sing,
Of the fairy court, and the charmed ring,
And the queen of the elf-countrie;
I love to gather that race around,
And make the greenwood enchanted ground.
And the wild race that were keeping
Their fairy revel, unmarked by men,
Save one, the bard who, sleeping
Under the shade of the Eildon tree,
Had many a vision he might not sing,
Of the fairy court, and the charmed ring,
And the queen of the elf-countrie;
I love to gather that race around,
And make the greenwood enchanted ground.
253
But the fairy revel has vanished thence,
As the crimson eve was glowing;
And I've heard, in vallies of bright Provence,
Sweet song like waters flowing;
And seen the plumed knights advance,
Not armed as meet for a coming war,
But with ivory lute, and rich guitar;
The bravest hearts in France
Were wandering each through the myrtle shade,
To his lady-love with a serenade.
As the crimson eve was glowing;
And I've heard, in vallies of bright Provence,
Sweet song like waters flowing;
And seen the plumed knights advance,
Not armed as meet for a coming war,
But with ivory lute, and rich guitar;
The bravest hearts in France
Were wandering each through the myrtle shade,
To his lady-love with a serenade.
I've seen again on the battle day,
The silken banners flying;
And heralds stand in bright array,
The brave to the fight defying;—
And oh! to see 'twas a goodly sight,
The prancing steed and glittering lance,
And the pennon that bore the cognizance
Of each redoubted knight;
The white-plumed helm, and the blazoned shield;
The mime and sport like a festal field.
The silken banners flying;
And heralds stand in bright array,
The brave to the fight defying;—
And oh! to see 'twas a goodly sight,
The prancing steed and glittering lance,
And the pennon that bore the cognizance
Of each redoubted knight;
The white-plumed helm, and the blazoned shield;
The mime and sport like a festal field.
254
I love to vision the nations gone,
And muse on departed story;
To dwell in the courts of Babylon,
In the blaze of her regal glory:—
And then in the wide and desert waste
Where the wild horse never knew steel nor rein;
To stand in the mighty and columned fane
Of Tadmor when undefaced;
And listen the bright sun's stoled quire
Hymn worship to the undying fire.
And muse on departed story;
To dwell in the courts of Babylon,
In the blaze of her regal glory:—
And then in the wide and desert waste
Where the wild horse never knew steel nor rein;
To stand in the mighty and columned fane
Of Tadmor when undefaced;
And listen the bright sun's stoled quire
Hymn worship to the undying fire.
And I love, in my spirit's light to see,
Ere the poet's soul was chained,
The bright dreams of young poetry,
When its visions were unfeigned;
And when the vale and grove were filled
With beautiful shapes that went and came;
'Till the poet's soul and hand were flame,
And then his lyre was thrilled;
And the tones he woke, and his warbled lays,
Have lived as lessons to dimmer days.
Ere the poet's soul was chained,
The bright dreams of young poetry,
When its visions were unfeigned;
And when the vale and grove were filled
With beautiful shapes that went and came;
'Till the poet's soul and hand were flame,
And then his lyre was thrilled;
And the tones he woke, and his warbled lays,
Have lived as lessons to dimmer days.
255
Oh! I love to be where the great have been,
Although no trace remaineth;
There's spirit enough to hallow the scene,
In the memory it retaineth:—
But all too short the summer's day,
For the sun of glory doth never set;
And its kindling glow, like an amulet
By my spirit borne away,
Has been in it Promethean fire,
When dim my soul, and cold the lyre.
Although no trace remaineth;
There's spirit enough to hallow the scene,
In the memory it retaineth:—
But all too short the summer's day,
For the sun of glory doth never set;
And its kindling glow, like an amulet
By my spirit borne away,
Has been in it Promethean fire,
When dim my soul, and cold the lyre.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |