 | Poems by a Painter |  |
129
SONG.
I
Fair star that shinestOn the front of even,
With a light divinest
Of the stars of heaven,
Hesper! to thee this night of nights my orisons be given!
To thee who bringest all things good,
Who bring'st the rosy hour
Warm-blushing up the western flood,
That leads me to her bower.
Over the billows my bonny boat merrily go!
The white foam sings under our lee, in our white sail the wind murmurs low,
130
II
Sea and sky were gleamingIn the cloudless noon;
Fold on fold the hills lay dreaming
In an azure swoon;
Wold and woodland throbbed with song, and breathed the balm of June!
But my soul was weary of the splendour,
Weary of bird and flower,
And sighed for night, the dark and still and tender,
To lead me to her bower.
Over the billows my bonny boat gallop and go!
She is waiting us under the rock in the shell-paven cove that we know,
Where the ivy-trail stirs not a tendril, how rudely soever it blow.
131
III
From the pine-crowned mountainForth into the night,
Like a welling fountain
Wells the glad moonlight,
Flushing all the starry gulfs with new and strange delight!
So the long gloom of lonely years
Crowned love's majestic power
Makes glorious, as the warm wind bears
Me onward to her bower!
Hush! 'Tis her soft-falling foot on the shadowy shore,
Like the lisp of a wavelet! She comes, in the glow of her beauty, once more!—
Rest thee, my bonny boat, rest thee till morning: our voyage is o'er!
| Poems by a Painter | |