 | Poems |  |
THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Source of the grand, the beautiful, the true,
Awake thy spell, thy sacred glow renew!
Teach me to trace the influence divine
That warms the hero and bedecks the shrine,
Steals, like a shadow, at the twilight hour,
Broods o'er the mountain, nestles in the flower,
Bold as the eagle, gentle as the dove,
To scale the stars or plume the wings of love!
Awake thy spell, thy sacred glow renew!
Teach me to trace the influence divine
That warms the hero and bedecks the shrine,
Steals, like a shadow, at the twilight hour,
Broods o'er the mountain, nestles in the flower,
Bold as the eagle, gentle as the dove,
To scale the stars or plume the wings of love!
Why go we forth, impatient to explore
The storied wonders of a distant shore,
Hallowed by peerless art and glory's tomb,
Or clad by warmer suns in richer bloom?
When on the ear first breaks the seaman's strain,
Blent with the clanking of the rising chain,
The dreary signal sounding to depart,
Each long wild cry thrills through the burdened heart,
Home visions, thrice endeared, usurp the place
Of foreign pictures, fancy loved to trace;
Hope's siren voice becomes a mournful knell
When quivering lips breathe forth a long farewell;
But when sad thoughts are quelled, tears dashed away,
Old ocean greets us with his glistening spray,
And while around the sullen waters roll,
Their solemn murmur pacifies the soul.
O, it is glorious to sojourn awhile
Upon the trackless deep, to know its smile
At summer eve, when gorgeous sunsets throw
O'er the foam-crests an amethystine glow,
Through flying cloud-rifts watch the orbs on high,
Like angels' censers waving in the sky,
And hear the wind-hymns pealing loud and clear,
To sound their triumph o'er the boundless sphere;
Or watch the moon hang soothingly above,
Like a pure crescent for the brow of love,
While her rays tremble on the ocean's breast,
Like childhood's locks by sportive airs caressed.
The storied wonders of a distant shore,
Hallowed by peerless art and glory's tomb,
Or clad by warmer suns in richer bloom?
When on the ear first breaks the seaman's strain,
Blent with the clanking of the rising chain,
2
Each long wild cry thrills through the burdened heart,
Home visions, thrice endeared, usurp the place
Of foreign pictures, fancy loved to trace;
Hope's siren voice becomes a mournful knell
When quivering lips breathe forth a long farewell;
But when sad thoughts are quelled, tears dashed away,
Old ocean greets us with his glistening spray,
And while around the sullen waters roll,
Their solemn murmur pacifies the soul.
O, it is glorious to sojourn awhile
Upon the trackless deep, to know its smile
At summer eve, when gorgeous sunsets throw
O'er the foam-crests an amethystine glow,
Through flying cloud-rifts watch the orbs on high,
Like angels' censers waving in the sky,
And hear the wind-hymns pealing loud and clear,
To sound their triumph o'er the boundless sphere;
Or watch the moon hang soothingly above,
Like a pure crescent for the brow of love,
While her rays tremble on the ocean's breast,
Like childhood's locks by sportive airs caressed.
And Earth's fair scenes—the river's lucent vase,
That mirrors mountains in its crystal face,
The autumn-tinted woods, whose branches sway
Like mighty hosts in festival array,
The cascade's anthem and the incense sweet
Wafted from thickets nestled at its feet,
The cloistral silence of the forest aisles,
And charms that live where floral beauty smiles,
Palms whose high tops the upper breezes woo,
And amber clouds that fleck a heaven of blue,
Are all symbolic to poetic sight
Of higher glory and supreme delight.
Who has looked forth upon a southern vale,
When o'er it sweeps Spring's renovating gale,
To wave the vine-stalks pendent from the trees,
Like garlands dallying with the sun and breeze,
Shake off the dewdrops in their jewelled pride,
From jasmin bud and aloe's thorny side,
Stir the meek violet in its dim retreat,
And die in zephyrs at the mountain's feet;—
Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide,
When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide,
And heard, amid the hills and islets fair,
The bugle's echo wake the summer air;
Or stood on Ætna's brow at break of day,
When crimson lines first tinge the pearly gray,
While wreaths of smoke and lurid flames rose nigh,
Flashing like altar fires against the sky,
And streaming, with a wild and fitful glow,
O'er the black lava crags and glittering snow;
And who Niagara's loveliness has known,
The rainbow diadem, the emerald throne,
Nor felt thy spell each baser thought control,
And, with delicious awe, subdue the soul?
That mirrors mountains in its crystal face,
The autumn-tinted woods, whose branches sway
Like mighty hosts in festival array,
3
Wafted from thickets nestled at its feet,
The cloistral silence of the forest aisles,
And charms that live where floral beauty smiles,
Palms whose high tops the upper breezes woo,
And amber clouds that fleck a heaven of blue,
Are all symbolic to poetic sight
Of higher glory and supreme delight.
Who has looked forth upon a southern vale,
When o'er it sweeps Spring's renovating gale,
To wave the vine-stalks pendent from the trees,
Like garlands dallying with the sun and breeze,
Shake off the dewdrops in their jewelled pride,
From jasmin bud and aloe's thorny side,
Stir the meek violet in its dim retreat,
And die in zephyrs at the mountain's feet;—
Who that has rocked upon Lake George's tide,
When its clear ripples in the moonlight glide,
And heard, amid the hills and islets fair,
The bugle's echo wake the summer air;
Or stood on Ætna's brow at break of day,
When crimson lines first tinge the pearly gray,
While wreaths of smoke and lurid flames rose nigh,
Flashing like altar fires against the sky,
And streaming, with a wild and fitful glow,
O'er the black lava crags and glittering snow;
4
The rainbow diadem, the emerald throne,
Nor felt thy spell each baser thought control,
And, with delicious awe, subdue the soul?
And whence the pleasure sad and undefined,
That steals, like autumn twilight, through the mind,
From monuments of eld—the relics gray
Of men and eras long since passed away?
Visions of by-gone worlds in shadows throng
Through memory's vestibule, when night's calm song
Mingles its cadence with the moaning breeze
That stirs the weeds upon the crumbling frieze,
Plays o'er the prostrate column's fluted side
As painted lizards round it fearless glide,
Waves the untrodden grass that rankly grows
Over a buried city's long repose,
While every echo of our footsteps there
Fills the deep silence of the pulseless air.
'Tis the enchantment of poetic thought,
With such a magic charm divinely fraught,
As can resummon ages, spread once more
The ruined temple's gaily pictured floor,
Its arches rear, and bid the concave ring
With minstrel strains or priestly worshipping.
And thus Time's calm and mystic spirit calls
At midnight through the Coliseum's walls,
Or in the old cathedral's mellow air
The musing stranger lures to silent prayer,
Weaves moss upon the rocks, with ivy twines
War's mouldering tower and Faith's deserted shrines,
Smooths the carved line, imprints the forehead meek,
Silvers the hair and pales the glowing cheek.
And would ye feel the sacred charm of Art,
Prove its poetic empire o'er the heart?
Beneath the unpillared dome go stand and gaze,
As o'er its frescos sunshine faintly plays;
See genius radiant with immortal grace,
Beaming so godlike from Apollo's face,
And Mary's smile, by Raphael's touch beguiled,
Bent in meek gladness on her slumbering child,
The poor, forgiven one, with golden hair
Gemmed by the dewdrops of subdued despair;
Or Egypt's queen in orient beauty drest,
Holding the viper to her snowy breast.
Nor gaze alone, let thine enchanted ear
Catch every note that music scatters near;
When the soft echo of the village bell,
Or peasant's reed comes floating down the dell,
When winter gales, with leafless boughs at play,
Wake dirges wild to mourn the year's decay,
And sylvan choristers, in myriad tones,
Welcome back summer to the northern zones;
Or when some queen of sweet Euterpe's train,
Pours forth her spirit to a master strain,
How quickly high, impassioned fancies rise,
Arrayed in melody's ethereal guise!
Won from our clay, without death's fearful strife,
We taste the glories of poetic life.
Divine Bellini! as I wandered o'er
The fertile valleys of thy native shore,
Each crystal wave upheaving seemed to sigh
For the lost harp whose strains can never die:
Though cold thy brow beneath the laurel crown,
Thy country's name enshrines thy young renown,
Thy melody, in tones of fervent truth,
Embalms the ardor of thy gifted youth;
There the soul triumphs, vanished bliss deplores,
With joy exults, in adoration soars,
Freedom's appeal sweeps every heart along,
And love's own rapture gushes forth in song.
O for a lyre of melody profound,
That I might sing the poetry of sound!
That thrilling language worthy to unroll
The deep emotions of an earnest soul,
On which glad angels from the realms above,
Brought to the earth their embassy of love,
Whose airy spell in Miriam's triumph rose,
And won from Saul the memory of his woes;
Cheered Milton's blindness, harmonized his lays,
And wove a charm for Mary's captive days;
Love's true expression caught from young Mozart,
And drove death's shadow from his trembling heart.
O, if there be an art familiar here,
Whose welcome waits us in a higher sphere,
'Tis that which now so winningly reveals
All that the fancy paints or spirit feels.
Hence we invoke the moving grace of song,
When stars or clouds around our pathway throng;
Kindle young valor by the trumpet's note,
And from the lute bid love's soft pleadings float,
Wake holy musing in the organ's peal,
And joy's blithe echo from the clarion steal,
Cheer the bride's visions, ere in sleep they fade,
With the sweet cadence of the serenade,
And to the altar move with measured tread,
To breathe a requiem o'er the honored dead.
That steals, like autumn twilight, through the mind,
From monuments of eld—the relics gray
Of men and eras long since passed away?
Visions of by-gone worlds in shadows throng
Through memory's vestibule, when night's calm song
Mingles its cadence with the moaning breeze
That stirs the weeds upon the crumbling frieze,
Plays o'er the prostrate column's fluted side
As painted lizards round it fearless glide,
Waves the untrodden grass that rankly grows
Over a buried city's long repose,
While every echo of our footsteps there
Fills the deep silence of the pulseless air.
'Tis the enchantment of poetic thought,
With such a magic charm divinely fraught,
As can resummon ages, spread once more
The ruined temple's gaily pictured floor,
Its arches rear, and bid the concave ring
With minstrel strains or priestly worshipping.
And thus Time's calm and mystic spirit calls
At midnight through the Coliseum's walls,
5
The musing stranger lures to silent prayer,
Weaves moss upon the rocks, with ivy twines
War's mouldering tower and Faith's deserted shrines,
Smooths the carved line, imprints the forehead meek,
Silvers the hair and pales the glowing cheek.
And would ye feel the sacred charm of Art,
Prove its poetic empire o'er the heart?
Beneath the unpillared dome go stand and gaze,
As o'er its frescos sunshine faintly plays;
See genius radiant with immortal grace,
Beaming so godlike from Apollo's face,
And Mary's smile, by Raphael's touch beguiled,
Bent in meek gladness on her slumbering child,
The poor, forgiven one, with golden hair
Gemmed by the dewdrops of subdued despair;
Or Egypt's queen in orient beauty drest,
Holding the viper to her snowy breast.
Nor gaze alone, let thine enchanted ear
Catch every note that music scatters near;
When the soft echo of the village bell,
Or peasant's reed comes floating down the dell,
When winter gales, with leafless boughs at play,
Wake dirges wild to mourn the year's decay,
And sylvan choristers, in myriad tones,
Welcome back summer to the northern zones;
6
Pours forth her spirit to a master strain,
How quickly high, impassioned fancies rise,
Arrayed in melody's ethereal guise!
Won from our clay, without death's fearful strife,
We taste the glories of poetic life.
Divine Bellini! as I wandered o'er
The fertile valleys of thy native shore,
Each crystal wave upheaving seemed to sigh
For the lost harp whose strains can never die:
Though cold thy brow beneath the laurel crown,
Thy country's name enshrines thy young renown,
Thy melody, in tones of fervent truth,
Embalms the ardor of thy gifted youth;
There the soul triumphs, vanished bliss deplores,
With joy exults, in adoration soars,
Freedom's appeal sweeps every heart along,
And love's own rapture gushes forth in song.
O for a lyre of melody profound,
That I might sing the poetry of sound!
That thrilling language worthy to unroll
The deep emotions of an earnest soul,
On which glad angels from the realms above,
Brought to the earth their embassy of love,
Whose airy spell in Miriam's triumph rose,
And won from Saul the memory of his woes;
7
And wove a charm for Mary's captive days;
Love's true expression caught from young Mozart,
And drove death's shadow from his trembling heart.
O, if there be an art familiar here,
Whose welcome waits us in a higher sphere,
'Tis that which now so winningly reveals
All that the fancy paints or spirit feels.
Hence we invoke the moving grace of song,
When stars or clouds around our pathway throng;
Kindle young valor by the trumpet's note,
And from the lute bid love's soft pleadings float,
Wake holy musing in the organ's peal,
And joy's blithe echo from the clarion steal,
Cheer the bride's visions, ere in sleep they fade,
With the sweet cadence of the serenade,
And to the altar move with measured tread,
To breathe a requiem o'er the honored dead.
There are who all poetic worship deem
The vague conception of an idle dream,
All hues romantic dash away with scorn,
As sickly mists of morbid fancy born;
Would quench in years the spirit's richest gift,
And wed brave manhood to ignoble thrift,
Boast of the age when reason's cool defence
Can vanquish sentiment by common sense,
And feeling's pristine earnestness control
By the firm barrier of a frozen soul,
Draw down blithe fancy from her joyous flight,
And still the music of unsought delight:
Not such the faith which court and tented glade
Cherished through ages lost in mental shade,
Nor such the hope of that immortal day
That ancient bards have rescued from decay,
When for poetic empire sages strove,
In temple porch and academic grove,
The free and patient votaries of Truth
Invoking reverence for the dreams of youth.
Each has his pharos;—some the twinkling ray
Of glow-worm joys that glimmer by the way,
Thought's prime apostates who profess to be
Vibrating ever from repose to glee,
All buoyant float down life's tumultuous stream,
And hail each bubble's transitory gleam;
Others, of deeper mood, compelled to think,
Their vassal natures to a dogma link,
By meteors led, and, like the quarry slave,
Dig in Opinion's mine a living grave,
Or tamely drudge where'er the mass may lead,
And swear allegiance to the reigning creed;
While the false flame and serpent-woven fold
Of Appetite a baser order mould.
Though lofty hopes and fancies high and free
Oft wage relentless war with destiny,
Heed not the voice that bids thee turn aside
And yield life's crowning grace to worldly pride;
With calm devotion to this solace cling,
And trust thy soul to its angelic wing,
And as the sun upon an ice-clad scene,
Pours golden radiance, dazzling yet serene,
Earth's cold arena and life's melting ties,
Warm with effulgence borrowed from the skies!
The vague conception of an idle dream,
All hues romantic dash away with scorn,
As sickly mists of morbid fancy born;
Would quench in years the spirit's richest gift,
And wed brave manhood to ignoble thrift,
Boast of the age when reason's cool defence
Can vanquish sentiment by common sense,
8
By the firm barrier of a frozen soul,
Draw down blithe fancy from her joyous flight,
And still the music of unsought delight:
Not such the faith which court and tented glade
Cherished through ages lost in mental shade,
Nor such the hope of that immortal day
That ancient bards have rescued from decay,
When for poetic empire sages strove,
In temple porch and academic grove,
The free and patient votaries of Truth
Invoking reverence for the dreams of youth.
Each has his pharos;—some the twinkling ray
Of glow-worm joys that glimmer by the way,
Thought's prime apostates who profess to be
Vibrating ever from repose to glee,
All buoyant float down life's tumultuous stream,
And hail each bubble's transitory gleam;
Others, of deeper mood, compelled to think,
Their vassal natures to a dogma link,
By meteors led, and, like the quarry slave,
Dig in Opinion's mine a living grave,
Or tamely drudge where'er the mass may lead,
And swear allegiance to the reigning creed;
While the false flame and serpent-woven fold
Of Appetite a baser order mould.
9
Oft wage relentless war with destiny,
Heed not the voice that bids thee turn aside
And yield life's crowning grace to worldly pride;
With calm devotion to this solace cling,
And trust thy soul to its angelic wing,
And as the sun upon an ice-clad scene,
Pours golden radiance, dazzling yet serene,
Earth's cold arena and life's melting ties,
Warm with effulgence borrowed from the skies!
Alas! that as the strains of childhood's lute
Pass into hoarser music, or grow mute,
The light that made existence half divine,
Should fade unheeded from the spirit's shrine!
And yet, in after years, when falls the tear
O'er joy's dregged chalice or ambition's bier,
We seek the fount whose bright and fragrant shower
Cooled our flushed brows in being's morning hour,
And whose sweet murmur filled the heart of youth,
With the deep tones of Nature's living truth.
We live to see our fondest dreams betrayed,
And sadly watch each hopeful vision fade,
Yet, still assured, bid fresh illusions spring,
And to the promise of the future cling;
Nay, on the shadows of departed days,
Delight to cast Imagination's rays,
And seasons all unheeded in their flow,
Learn to contemplate with affection's glow.
Thus the blest spirit that I sing can lend
New charms to hope, with memory's visions blend,
Call back the smiles of days forever fled,
Round time to come benign allurements shed,
Grief's misty shades and pleasure's burning sun,
By a celestial arch, unite in one,
And to the gladdened pilgrim's weary eye,
Reveal the rainbow of life's troubled sky.
Pass into hoarser music, or grow mute,
The light that made existence half divine,
Should fade unheeded from the spirit's shrine!
And yet, in after years, when falls the tear
O'er joy's dregged chalice or ambition's bier,
We seek the fount whose bright and fragrant shower
Cooled our flushed brows in being's morning hour,
And whose sweet murmur filled the heart of youth,
With the deep tones of Nature's living truth.
We live to see our fondest dreams betrayed,
And sadly watch each hopeful vision fade,
Yet, still assured, bid fresh illusions spring,
And to the promise of the future cling;
Nay, on the shadows of departed days,
Delight to cast Imagination's rays,
10
Learn to contemplate with affection's glow.
Thus the blest spirit that I sing can lend
New charms to hope, with memory's visions blend,
Call back the smiles of days forever fled,
Round time to come benign allurements shed,
Grief's misty shades and pleasure's burning sun,
By a celestial arch, unite in one,
And to the gladdened pilgrim's weary eye,
Reveal the rainbow of life's troubled sky.
How soon would custom disenchant the earth,
Bid wonder cease, and quench the zest of mirth,
Did thy sweet voice not mingle with our strife,
And oft revive the miracle of life!
As the dim pavement rich in ancient hues,
When sprinkled o'er, its primal tint renews,
So freshens Nature as thy holy tears
Baptize the soul and melt the frost of years.
Benignant spirit! still thy smile impart,
Exalt the mind and renovate the heart,
Some better moments let us cherish still,
Some flowers spare our shattered urns to fill,
Hallow and cheer a few green spots below,
Where love can meditate and fancy glow,
Where at thy shrine a vigil we may keep,
And feel our lives are “rounded with a sleep!”
Bid wonder cease, and quench the zest of mirth,
Did thy sweet voice not mingle with our strife,
And oft revive the miracle of life!
As the dim pavement rich in ancient hues,
When sprinkled o'er, its primal tint renews,
So freshens Nature as thy holy tears
Baptize the soul and melt the frost of years.
Benignant spirit! still thy smile impart,
Exalt the mind and renovate the heart,
Some better moments let us cherish still,
Some flowers spare our shattered urns to fill,
Hallow and cheer a few green spots below,
Where love can meditate and fancy glow,
Where at thy shrine a vigil we may keep,
And feel our lives are “rounded with a sleep!”
11
There lies a land far down a southern sea,
Whose air, though balmy, is no longer free;
The briny gale and mountain's cordial breath
Circle a race that sleep in civic death,
Yet matchless graces to that sleep belong,
For o'er it floats the atmosphere of song.
Though withered crones sit spinning in the sun,
Where Cæsar's rule and Tully's fame begun,
Though moaning beggars crowd the fair domain,
And bigot priests usurp a pampered reign,
Still Beauty lives, enamored of the clime,
And twines her garlands round the wrecks of time;
Drives from the patriot's brow its hopeless gloom,
With light that streams from Dante's lonely tomb,
Bids him, the airy dome beholding nigh,
Hail Angelo a tenant of the sky,
Muse on the trophies by the Dorian shore,
Columbus bravely won and sadly wore,
Or Galileo's honored name revere,
Borne on the rays of every golden sphere.
Poetic charms the peasant's olive face,
In Arno's vale, adorn with placid grace,
Flash from Venetian oars that tuneful sway,
When moonlight gilds the Adriatic bay,
With warlike memories stir the verdant grain
That waves luxuriant on the Lombard plain,
Waft citron blossoms, as the vesper bell
Dies faintly down Palermo's golden shell,
O'er sweet Parthenope in triumph stream,
Like beacon flames, in each volcanic gleam,
Brood in the stillness of Rome's saintly piles,
And scent the breeze from Como's fairy isles.
Whose air, though balmy, is no longer free;
The briny gale and mountain's cordial breath
Circle a race that sleep in civic death,
Yet matchless graces to that sleep belong,
For o'er it floats the atmosphere of song.
Though withered crones sit spinning in the sun,
Where Cæsar's rule and Tully's fame begun,
Though moaning beggars crowd the fair domain,
And bigot priests usurp a pampered reign,
Still Beauty lives, enamored of the clime,
And twines her garlands round the wrecks of time;
Drives from the patriot's brow its hopeless gloom,
With light that streams from Dante's lonely tomb,
Bids him, the airy dome beholding nigh,
Hail Angelo a tenant of the sky,
Muse on the trophies by the Dorian shore,
Columbus bravely won and sadly wore,
Or Galileo's honored name revere,
Borne on the rays of every golden sphere.
Poetic charms the peasant's olive face,
In Arno's vale, adorn with placid grace,
Flash from Venetian oars that tuneful sway,
When moonlight gilds the Adriatic bay,
With warlike memories stir the verdant grain
That waves luxuriant on the Lombard plain,
12
Dies faintly down Palermo's golden shell,
O'er sweet Parthenope in triumph stream,
Like beacon flames, in each volcanic gleam,
Brood in the stillness of Rome's saintly piles,
And scent the breeze from Como's fairy isles.
Read the great law in Beauty's cheering reign,
Blent with all ends through matter's wide domain;
She breathes hope's language, and with boundless range
Sublimes all forms, smiles through each subtle change,
And with insensate elements combined,
Ordains their constant ministry to mind.
The breeze awoke to waft the feathered seed,
And the cloud fountains with their dew to feed,
Upon it many errands might have flown,
Nor woke one river song or forest moan,
Stirred not the grass, nor the tall grain have bent,
Like shoreless billows tremulously spent;
Frost could the bosom of the lake have glassed,
Nor paused to paint the woodland as it passed,
The glossy seabird and the brooding dove
Might coyly peck, with twinkling eye of love,
Nor catch upon their downy necks the dyes
So like the mottled hues of summer skies;
Mists in the west could float, nor glory wear,
As if an angel's robes were streaming there;
The moon might sway the tides, nor yet impart
A solemn light to tranquilize the heart,
And leagues of sand could bar the ocean's swell,
Nor yield one crystal gleam or pearly shell.
The very sedge lends music to the blast,
And the thorn glistens when the storm is past,
Wild flowers nestle in the rocky cleft,
Moss decks the bough of leaf and life bereft,
O'er darkest clouds the moonbeams brightly steal,
The rainbow's herald is the thunder's peal;
Gay are the weeds that strew the barren shore,
And anthem-like the breaker's gloomy roar;
As love o'er sorrow spreads her genial wings,
The ivy round a fallen column clings,
While on the sinking walls, where owlets cry,
The weather-stains in tints of beauty lie;
The wasting elements adorn their prey,
And throw a pensive charm around decay;
Thus ancient limners bade their canvass glow,
And grouped sweet cherubs o'er a martyr's wo.
Blent with all ends through matter's wide domain;
She breathes hope's language, and with boundless range
Sublimes all forms, smiles through each subtle change,
And with insensate elements combined,
Ordains their constant ministry to mind.
The breeze awoke to waft the feathered seed,
And the cloud fountains with their dew to feed,
Upon it many errands might have flown,
Nor woke one river song or forest moan,
Stirred not the grass, nor the tall grain have bent,
Like shoreless billows tremulously spent;
Frost could the bosom of the lake have glassed,
Nor paused to paint the woodland as it passed,
The glossy seabird and the brooding dove
Might coyly peck, with twinkling eye of love,
Nor catch upon their downy necks the dyes
So like the mottled hues of summer skies;
Mists in the west could float, nor glory wear,
As if an angel's robes were streaming there;
13
A solemn light to tranquilize the heart,
And leagues of sand could bar the ocean's swell,
Nor yield one crystal gleam or pearly shell.
The very sedge lends music to the blast,
And the thorn glistens when the storm is past,
Wild flowers nestle in the rocky cleft,
Moss decks the bough of leaf and life bereft,
O'er darkest clouds the moonbeams brightly steal,
The rainbow's herald is the thunder's peal;
Gay are the weeds that strew the barren shore,
And anthem-like the breaker's gloomy roar;
As love o'er sorrow spreads her genial wings,
The ivy round a fallen column clings,
While on the sinking walls, where owlets cry,
The weather-stains in tints of beauty lie;
The wasting elements adorn their prey,
And throw a pensive charm around decay;
Thus ancient limners bade their canvass glow,
And grouped sweet cherubs o'er a martyr's wo.
Nor does the charm of poetry disdain
In forms instinctive to assert her reign;
With graceful sweep the startled curlews fly,
And the struck deer will turn aside to die;
How moves the steed majestical and free,
How builds the beaver, and how stores the bee!
The patient glow-worm lights a torch of love,
And to her goal flies on the faithful dove,
Rare colors o'er the dying dolphin play,
And coral groves an insect's art betray.
In forms instinctive to assert her reign;
With graceful sweep the startled curlews fly,
And the struck deer will turn aside to die;
How moves the steed majestical and free,
How builds the beaver, and how stores the bee!
14
And to her goal flies on the faithful dove,
Rare colors o'er the dying dolphin play,
And coral groves an insect's art betray.
But not alone where verdure, wave and sky
Serenely blend to captivate the eye,
In the still woods or soothing voice of streams
Does poetry derive her moving themes.
The city mark, its motley crowd survey,
Decked with the trophies of blind Fortune's sway;
Trace the procession mingling from afar,
The gaudy chariot and the funeral car,
The tattered wretch, the belle in proud array,
The anxious plodder and the child at play.
Walk by the port, at sunset, to descry
A leafless forest painted on the sky,
Those masts are winged triumphantly to sweep
The cold gray bosom of the mighty deep,
Spread wisdom's beams, dissevered worlds unite,
Trade's guerdon win, or dare the billowy fight,
Each nation's ensign rear to foreign gales,
And whiten ocean with a thousand sails.
At eve, the lights from every casement shed
Illume the feast or glimmer o'er the dead,
Shine on a band who mutual blessings share,
Or mock the haggard visage of despair;
Here the pleased infant's wondering sight engage,
And there proclaim the vigil of the sage:
The gable roof and lofty palace door,
The ancient spire with moonbeams silvered o'er,
The sunken tombstone and the cheerful street
Humanity's great lesson still repeat.
Serenely blend to captivate the eye,
In the still woods or soothing voice of streams
Does poetry derive her moving themes.
The city mark, its motley crowd survey,
Decked with the trophies of blind Fortune's sway;
Trace the procession mingling from afar,
The gaudy chariot and the funeral car,
The tattered wretch, the belle in proud array,
The anxious plodder and the child at play.
Walk by the port, at sunset, to descry
A leafless forest painted on the sky,
Those masts are winged triumphantly to sweep
The cold gray bosom of the mighty deep,
Spread wisdom's beams, dissevered worlds unite,
Trade's guerdon win, or dare the billowy fight,
Each nation's ensign rear to foreign gales,
And whiten ocean with a thousand sails.
At eve, the lights from every casement shed
Illume the feast or glimmer o'er the dead,
Shine on a band who mutual blessings share,
Or mock the haggard visage of despair;
15
And there proclaim the vigil of the sage:
The gable roof and lofty palace door,
The ancient spire with moonbeams silvered o'er,
The sunken tombstone and the cheerful street
Humanity's great lesson still repeat.
And home's calm privacy thy presence cheers,
To wake its smiles and consecrate its tears.
We trace thee in the harp, the vase, the bust
That calls the dear departed from the dust,
The pictured ceiling and mosaic floor,
The woodbine trained around the cottage door,
The sculptured chalice brimmed with sparkling wine,
And “flow of soul” that makes the feast divine.
To wake its smiles and consecrate its tears.
We trace thee in the harp, the vase, the bust
That calls the dear departed from the dust,
The pictured ceiling and mosaic floor,
The woodbine trained around the cottage door,
The sculptured chalice brimmed with sparkling wine,
And “flow of soul” that makes the feast divine.
And when the eye can scan thy gifts no more,
When fancy's revel on the earth is o'er,
In some blest spot where groups of noble trees
Spread their dense foliage to the summer breeze;
Where the oak yields its rich autumnal hue,
And drip the pine leaves with the morning dew,
Where moans the cypress, or the lindens wave,
Allured by thee we find a quiet grave.
At Père là Chaise thy holy genius dwells,
Hangs on each cross a wreath of immortels,
And thy bright dreams with hopeful emblems fill
The shades of Auburn and fair Laurel Hill;
Through the dark firs a pyramid behold,
On which the patriot's sacred deeds are told,
A broken shaft speaks of departed youth,
And a white urn proclaims a maiden's truth;
By the dark portal of the silent tomb,
The wild birds warble and the roses bloom,
Poetic graces round the scene are shed,
And beauty cheers a city of the dead.
When fancy's revel on the earth is o'er,
In some blest spot where groups of noble trees
Spread their dense foliage to the summer breeze;
Where the oak yields its rich autumnal hue,
And drip the pine leaves with the morning dew,
Where moans the cypress, or the lindens wave,
Allured by thee we find a quiet grave.
At Père là Chaise thy holy genius dwells,
Hangs on each cross a wreath of immortels,
And thy bright dreams with hopeful emblems fill
The shades of Auburn and fair Laurel Hill;
16
On which the patriot's sacred deeds are told,
A broken shaft speaks of departed youth,
And a white urn proclaims a maiden's truth;
By the dark portal of the silent tomb,
The wild birds warble and the roses bloom,
Poetic graces round the scene are shed,
And beauty cheers a city of the dead.
How vain the toil that dims the eye of youth,
To garner barren words in search of truth!
What can avail the gems of choicest lore,
If the pale student does but count them o'er,
Like miser's coin, and lacks the sacred flame
That wreathes with living light each hallowed name,
Displays on fancy's flowers truth's crystal dew,
Draws from each pearl of thought its richest hue,
Blends scattered beauties, and on wisdom's scroll
Pours the full radiance of a kindred soul?
Transmuting spirit! in thy magic fold
Thought's common dross is changed to virgin gold;
Chartered by thee, how deeply we engage
In the rich pathos of the tragic page;
With Hamlet muse, share Richard's dream of fear,
Bend with Cordelia o'er reviving Lear,
Imbibe Othello's fierce and fond despair,
Or breathe with Juliet love's ecstatic air!
To garner barren words in search of truth!
What can avail the gems of choicest lore,
If the pale student does but count them o'er,
Like miser's coin, and lacks the sacred flame
That wreathes with living light each hallowed name,
Displays on fancy's flowers truth's crystal dew,
Draws from each pearl of thought its richest hue,
Blends scattered beauties, and on wisdom's scroll
Pours the full radiance of a kindred soul?
Transmuting spirit! in thy magic fold
Thought's common dross is changed to virgin gold;
Chartered by thee, how deeply we engage
In the rich pathos of the tragic page;
With Hamlet muse, share Richard's dream of fear,
Bend with Cordelia o'er reviving Lear,
Imbibe Othello's fierce and fond despair,
Or breathe with Juliet love's ecstatic air!
17
And what is History unadorned by thee?
An arid path, a shadow-vested sea,
Tales of a bigot's wiles, a tyrant's frown,
Heartless espousals to secure a crown,
War after war, and reign succeeding reign,
A monarch's pleasure and a people's bane:
Thy holy radiance plays not o'er the spot,
Where kings were idolized and men forgot,
But fondly lingers round the Alpine dell,
In whose sweet echo lives the name of Tell,
And lights the forest gloom where, undismayed,
The Indian girl her father's vengeance stayed,
And bowed her head to take the savage blow
Destined to lay a captive stranger low;
Or, like a star, eternal vigil keeps
Where our world-honored, angel-hero sleeps.
An arid path, a shadow-vested sea,
Tales of a bigot's wiles, a tyrant's frown,
Heartless espousals to secure a crown,
War after war, and reign succeeding reign,
A monarch's pleasure and a people's bane:
Thy holy radiance plays not o'er the spot,
Where kings were idolized and men forgot,
But fondly lingers round the Alpine dell,
In whose sweet echo lives the name of Tell,
And lights the forest gloom where, undismayed,
The Indian girl her father's vengeance stayed,
And bowed her head to take the savage blow
Destined to lay a captive stranger low;
Or, like a star, eternal vigil keeps
Where our world-honored, angel-hero sleeps.
Life's mighty sorrows, by profound appeal,
High consolation to the soul reveal;
In the fierce onset, his expiring breath,
All unawares, the warrior yields to death,
And Fortune's child, when from her temple hurled,
Will bear a dauntless presence through the world;
Roused by the rudeness of the sudden shock,
Scorns pity, laughs at fate, and, like a rock
Lashed by the surges on life's dreary shore,
Stands firm and lone till changeful time is o'er:
And they who see the dread sepulchral sleep
O'er all their loved ones unrelenting creep,
With firm endurance meet the fatal strokes,
Like storm-scathed hills or thunder-riven oaks;
But milder sufferings, more enduring wo,
That, like Tophana's waters, poison slow,
Bring no excitement potent to sustain,
Inciting courage and absorbing pain.
Such is his lot in fragile frame arrayed,
On whom disease her solemn hand has laid;
Like a blithe bird with arrow-shivered plume,
Confined to lowly flights and narrow doom,
Fated to watch his mates with drooping eye,
Circle triumphant through the glowing sky,
Fast moored his bark with adamantine chain,
Impatient heaves to tempt the open main;
And if the notes of Fame's melodious horn
Make his heart leap in manhood's eager morn,
A fluttering pulse or throb of anguish wild,
Mocks the frail hope that to his fancy smiled:
Ah! not for him does pleasure twine her flowers.
In festive hall, or laughter-ringing bowers;
The charm of wit and love's Elysian strain
Dispelled by trembling nerve or aching brain;
And if the thrill bid rapture's fountains flow,
How shadow-like 'tis followed by the throe!
How dark a lot were being such as this,
If unattended by poetic bliss!
Yet thus consoled, lone suffering's patient child,
Of pain and weariness full oft beguiled,
Asks for no throne but his accustomed chair,
Nor rarer blessings than he summons there;
With half closed eyes, in musing pleasure lost,
Dissolves in dreams Time's devastating frost,
Or roaming forth to court the zephyr's play,
Noon's balmy softness floating round his way,
The rare communion quickens every vein
With rapturous sense of Nature's blissful reign.
Pause at this threshold; shade thy weary eye,
Sated with light from Rome's cerulean sky.
Yon flame that half illumes the dusky room,
A low watch-tick, and flowers' faint perfume
Alone give sign of life; approach and bend
O'er the low couch, to mark a poet's end:
No wife stands by, with deep but chastened wo,
To soothe death's stern and desolating throe,
No sister's face or father's form revered,
By a long ministry of love endeared,
Are there, his final agony to cheer
With kindly word or sympathizing tear,
Bathe his parched lips, his cold hand fondly press,
And Heaven invoke the parting soul to bless:
From a mere boy he loved the Grecian streams,
Sappho's high strain and Plato's mystic dreams,
Fables that live on Homer's deathless page,
And all the wonders of the classic age:
He pondered on its beauty till there grew
A passion those rare graces to renew,
And for such strains his harp he boldly strung,
E'en to the accents of a northern tongue;
The aim was lofty, worthy life's proud dawn,
Nobler than common themes of fashion born;
The Muses smiled when Genius gave it birth,
But critics coldly laughed with scornful mirth;
The poet's eye grew bright with hectic fire,
And Hope's cold visage stilled his trembling lyre;
He sought the breezes of a southern sky,
From home and country roamed, alone to die;
Yet one consoler cheered his latest breath,
And smoothed the pathway of an exile's death;
The tuneful bird in boyhood's breast that sang
Still charmed to silence every earthly pang;
E'en in that vale of shadows lone and drear,
Herald of coming joy, yet warbled near;
The setting sun, before his waning gaze,
Upon the curtain poured his crimson rays,
And as they glowed, then quivered, faded, fled,
Calmly the dying poet turned his head;
“And such is life,” he whispered in the ear
Of the one friend, who watchful lingered near,
“With me 'tis done; write on my early tomb
My name was writ in water, flowers bloom
Over my ashes—death's dew is on my brow—
My heart grows still—and yet I feel them now!”
High consolation to the soul reveal;
In the fierce onset, his expiring breath,
All unawares, the warrior yields to death,
And Fortune's child, when from her temple hurled,
Will bear a dauntless presence through the world;
Roused by the rudeness of the sudden shock,
Scorns pity, laughs at fate, and, like a rock
Lashed by the surges on life's dreary shore,
Stands firm and lone till changeful time is o'er:
18
O'er all their loved ones unrelenting creep,
With firm endurance meet the fatal strokes,
Like storm-scathed hills or thunder-riven oaks;
But milder sufferings, more enduring wo,
That, like Tophana's waters, poison slow,
Bring no excitement potent to sustain,
Inciting courage and absorbing pain.
Such is his lot in fragile frame arrayed,
On whom disease her solemn hand has laid;
Like a blithe bird with arrow-shivered plume,
Confined to lowly flights and narrow doom,
Fated to watch his mates with drooping eye,
Circle triumphant through the glowing sky,
Fast moored his bark with adamantine chain,
Impatient heaves to tempt the open main;
And if the notes of Fame's melodious horn
Make his heart leap in manhood's eager morn,
A fluttering pulse or throb of anguish wild,
Mocks the frail hope that to his fancy smiled:
Ah! not for him does pleasure twine her flowers.
In festive hall, or laughter-ringing bowers;
The charm of wit and love's Elysian strain
Dispelled by trembling nerve or aching brain;
And if the thrill bid rapture's fountains flow,
How shadow-like 'tis followed by the throe!
19
If unattended by poetic bliss!
Yet thus consoled, lone suffering's patient child,
Of pain and weariness full oft beguiled,
Asks for no throne but his accustomed chair,
Nor rarer blessings than he summons there;
With half closed eyes, in musing pleasure lost,
Dissolves in dreams Time's devastating frost,
Or roaming forth to court the zephyr's play,
Noon's balmy softness floating round his way,
The rare communion quickens every vein
With rapturous sense of Nature's blissful reign.
Pause at this threshold; shade thy weary eye,
Sated with light from Rome's cerulean sky.
Yon flame that half illumes the dusky room,
A low watch-tick, and flowers' faint perfume
Alone give sign of life; approach and bend
O'er the low couch, to mark a poet's end:
No wife stands by, with deep but chastened wo,
To soothe death's stern and desolating throe,
No sister's face or father's form revered,
By a long ministry of love endeared,
Are there, his final agony to cheer
With kindly word or sympathizing tear,
Bathe his parched lips, his cold hand fondly press,
And Heaven invoke the parting soul to bless:
20
Sappho's high strain and Plato's mystic dreams,
Fables that live on Homer's deathless page,
And all the wonders of the classic age:
He pondered on its beauty till there grew
A passion those rare graces to renew,
And for such strains his harp he boldly strung,
E'en to the accents of a northern tongue;
The aim was lofty, worthy life's proud dawn,
Nobler than common themes of fashion born;
The Muses smiled when Genius gave it birth,
But critics coldly laughed with scornful mirth;
The poet's eye grew bright with hectic fire,
And Hope's cold visage stilled his trembling lyre;
He sought the breezes of a southern sky,
From home and country roamed, alone to die;
Yet one consoler cheered his latest breath,
And smoothed the pathway of an exile's death;
The tuneful bird in boyhood's breast that sang
Still charmed to silence every earthly pang;
E'en in that vale of shadows lone and drear,
Herald of coming joy, yet warbled near;
The setting sun, before his waning gaze,
Upon the curtain poured his crimson rays,
And as they glowed, then quivered, faded, fled,
Calmly the dying poet turned his head;
21
Of the one friend, who watchful lingered near,
“With me 'tis done; write on my early tomb
My name was writ in water, flowers bloom
Over my ashes—death's dew is on my brow—
My heart grows still—and yet I feel them now!”
Heroic guide! whose wings are never furled,
By thee Spain's voyager sought another world;
What but poetic impulse could sustain
That dauntless pilgrim on the dreary main?
Day after day his mariners protest,
And gaze with dread along the pathless west;
Beyond that realm of waves untracked before,
Thy fairy pencil traced the promised shore,
Through weary storms and faction's fiercer rage,
The scoffs of ingrates and the chills of age,
Thy voice renewed his earnestness of aim,
And whispered pledges of eternal fame,
Thy cheering smile atoned for fortune's frown,
And made his fetters garlands of renown.
By thee Spain's voyager sought another world;
What but poetic impulse could sustain
That dauntless pilgrim on the dreary main?
Day after day his mariners protest,
And gaze with dread along the pathless west;
Beyond that realm of waves untracked before,
Thy fairy pencil traced the promised shore,
Through weary storms and faction's fiercer rage,
The scoffs of ingrates and the chills of age,
Thy voice renewed his earnestness of aim,
And whispered pledges of eternal fame,
Thy cheering smile atoned for fortune's frown,
And made his fetters garlands of renown.
Princes, when softened in thy sweet embrace,
Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace,
And thus redeemed, Lorenzo's fair domain
Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign.
Delightful Florence! though the northern gale
Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale,
Can I forget how softly Autumn threw
Beneath thy skies, her robes of ruddy hue,
Through what long days of balminess and peace,
From wintry bonds Spring won thy mild release?
Along the Arno then I loved to pass,
And watch the violets peeping from the grass,
Mark the gray kine each chestnut grove between,
Startle the pheasants on the lawny green,
Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow,
Like lofty shrines the purple cloud below.
Within thy halls, when veiled the sunny rays,
Marvels of art await the ardent gaze,
And liquid words from lips of beauty start,
With social joy to warm the stranger's heart.
How beautiful, at moonlight's hallowed hour,
Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower!
The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang
Round the fair scene whence modern genius sprang;
O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls
The silver beam on dome and cornice falls;
The statues clustered in thy ancient square
Like mighty spirits print the solemn air,
Silence meets beauty with unbroken reign,
Save when invaded by a choral strain,
Whose distant cadence falls upon the ear,
To fill the bosom with poetic cheer.
Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace,
And thus redeemed, Lorenzo's fair domain
Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign.
Delightful Florence! though the northern gale
Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale,
22
Beneath thy skies, her robes of ruddy hue,
Through what long days of balminess and peace,
From wintry bonds Spring won thy mild release?
Along the Arno then I loved to pass,
And watch the violets peeping from the grass,
Mark the gray kine each chestnut grove between,
Startle the pheasants on the lawny green,
Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow,
Like lofty shrines the purple cloud below.
Within thy halls, when veiled the sunny rays,
Marvels of art await the ardent gaze,
And liquid words from lips of beauty start,
With social joy to warm the stranger's heart.
How beautiful, at moonlight's hallowed hour,
Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower!
The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang
Round the fair scene whence modern genius sprang;
O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls
The silver beam on dome and cornice falls;
The statues clustered in thy ancient square
Like mighty spirits print the solemn air,
Silence meets beauty with unbroken reign,
Save when invaded by a choral strain,
Whose distant cadence falls upon the ear,
To fill the bosom with poetic cheer.
23
For Fame life's meaner records vainly strive,
While, in fresh beauty, thy high dreams survive:
Still Vesta's temple throws its classic shade
O'er the bright foam of Tivoli's cascade,
And to one Venus still we bow the knee,
Divine as if just issued from the sea;
In fancy's trance, yet deem on nights serene,
We hear the revels of the fairy queen,
That Dian's smile illumes the marble fane,
And Ceres whispers in the rustling grain,
That Ariel's music has not died away,
And in his shell still floats the Culprit Fay.
The sacred beings of poetic birth
Immortal live to consecrate the earth.
San Marco's pavement boasts no Doge's tread,
And all its ancient pageantry has fled;
Yet as we muse beneath some dim arcade,
The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade:
In every passing eye that sternly beams,
We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams;
Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen,
Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien,
While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore,
Yields us the smile that once entranced the Moor.
How Scotland's vales are peopled to the heart
By her bold minstrel's necromantic art!
Along this fern moved Jeannie's patient feet,
Where hangs yon mist, rose Ellangowan's seat,
Here the sad bride first gave her love a tongue,
And there the chief's last shout of triumph rung;
Beside each stream, down every glen they throng,
The cherished offspring of creative song!
Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore,
The bard of Avon hallowed Elsinore:
Perchance when moored the fleet, awaiting day,
To fix the battle's terrible array,
Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep,
So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep,
Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone
Blend with the water's melancholy moan,
Recalled, with prayer and awe-suspended breath,
His wild and solemn questionings of death,
Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song
Swept by the night-breeze plaintively along!
While, in fresh beauty, thy high dreams survive:
Still Vesta's temple throws its classic shade
O'er the bright foam of Tivoli's cascade,
And to one Venus still we bow the knee,
Divine as if just issued from the sea;
In fancy's trance, yet deem on nights serene,
We hear the revels of the fairy queen,
That Dian's smile illumes the marble fane,
And Ceres whispers in the rustling grain,
That Ariel's music has not died away,
And in his shell still floats the Culprit Fay.
The sacred beings of poetic birth
Immortal live to consecrate the earth.
San Marco's pavement boasts no Doge's tread,
And all its ancient pageantry has fled;
Yet as we muse beneath some dim arcade,
The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade:
In every passing eye that sternly beams,
We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams;
Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen,
Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien,
While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore,
Yields us the smile that once entranced the Moor.
How Scotland's vales are peopled to the heart
By her bold minstrel's necromantic art!
24
Where hangs yon mist, rose Ellangowan's seat,
Here the sad bride first gave her love a tongue,
And there the chief's last shout of triumph rung;
Beside each stream, down every glen they throng,
The cherished offspring of creative song!
Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore,
The bard of Avon hallowed Elsinore:
Perchance when moored the fleet, awaiting day,
To fix the battle's terrible array,
Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep,
So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep,
Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone
Blend with the water's melancholy moan,
Recalled, with prayer and awe-suspended breath,
His wild and solemn questionings of death,
Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song
Swept by the night-breeze plaintively along!
What charms on motion can thy grace bestow,
To sway the willow or to wreath the snow,
Bow the ripe maize like golden spears that fall,
With one accord to greet their leader's call,
Twirl the red leaf in circles through the air,
Or guide the torrent to its foaming lair:
E'en the rude billows, wafted by thy hand,
With sweep majestic break along the strand,
And downy clouds that cluster in the west,
Seem winged with hope like spirits of the blest.
Thine is the spell that quickens buoyant feet,
In the gay onset and the coy retreat,
Through fairy mazes that bewitch the sight,
And sprightly rounds prolific of delight,
Till the blithe magic every sense entrance,
And lead us captives to the joyous dance.
To sway the willow or to wreath the snow,
Bow the ripe maize like golden spears that fall,
With one accord to greet their leader's call,
Twirl the red leaf in circles through the air,
Or guide the torrent to its foaming lair:
E'en the rude billows, wafted by thy hand,
With sweep majestic break along the strand,
25
Seem winged with hope like spirits of the blest.
Thine is the spell that quickens buoyant feet,
In the gay onset and the coy retreat,
Through fairy mazes that bewitch the sight,
And sprightly rounds prolific of delight,
Till the blithe magic every sense entrance,
And lead us captives to the joyous dance.
And Love, that, like the lily, meekly rears
Her vernal joy above the flood of years,
Flits round our path till shadowed by the grave,
As ocean-birds skim o'er the gloomy wave,
How rich her gifts, how seraph-like her guise,
When on poetic wing she nobly flies!
Then, in the virgin brow, we joy to find
A lovely emblem of congenial mind,
Hail feeling in the dimpling lips that part
To free the beatings of the quickened heart,
While each kind word that from them softly falls,
Thrills every pulse as when a trumpet calls;
Or meet the eye, affection's beaming goal,
To feel the presence of congenial soul,
Caress each ringlet of the flowing hair,
As it were charmed to lure us from despair,
And round a human idol trembling throw
All the fond hopes on which we live below!
Nor time, nor care, nor death have power to tame
Our votive trust, or dim the quenchless flame.
Cheered by its light, the Tuscan muse defied
Exile and hardship, courtly pomp and pride,
Through the cold mists neglect around him threw,
And storms of hate that o'er him fiercely blew,
A presence saw, the brooding clouds above,
The changeless presage of eternal love!
And that pale face, bowed on the open leaf,
Whence its bland air of subjugated grief?
Methinks 'tis strange that death should gently steal,
And, like a slumber, life's warm fountain seal,
Just as its last clear droppings shrunk away
To their clear well-spring, from the light of day;
Thus Laura's bard in peaceful musing died,
A life poetic closed, by love beatified.
Her vernal joy above the flood of years,
Flits round our path till shadowed by the grave,
As ocean-birds skim o'er the gloomy wave,
How rich her gifts, how seraph-like her guise,
When on poetic wing she nobly flies!
Then, in the virgin brow, we joy to find
A lovely emblem of congenial mind,
Hail feeling in the dimpling lips that part
To free the beatings of the quickened heart,
While each kind word that from them softly falls,
Thrills every pulse as when a trumpet calls;
Or meet the eye, affection's beaming goal,
To feel the presence of congenial soul,
Caress each ringlet of the flowing hair,
As it were charmed to lure us from despair,
And round a human idol trembling throw
All the fond hopes on which we live below!
26
Our votive trust, or dim the quenchless flame.
Cheered by its light, the Tuscan muse defied
Exile and hardship, courtly pomp and pride,
Through the cold mists neglect around him threw,
And storms of hate that o'er him fiercely blew,
A presence saw, the brooding clouds above,
The changeless presage of eternal love!
And that pale face, bowed on the open leaf,
Whence its bland air of subjugated grief?
Methinks 'tis strange that death should gently steal,
And, like a slumber, life's warm fountain seal,
Just as its last clear droppings shrunk away
To their clear well-spring, from the light of day;
Thus Laura's bard in peaceful musing died,
A life poetic closed, by love beatified.
On Judah's hills thy effluence hovered nigh,
As Bethlehem's star wheeled up the tranquil sky,
And holy grew where on his sinless breast,
A Saviour bade the head of childhood rest.
Spirit of faith! to whose pure source we turn,
When hopes divine with holiest rapture burn,
Can reason follow thy seraphic feet
Beyond the world, to God's eternal seat?
Dear as thy promise is, O what wert thou,
Could we not image thy memorials now,
And in exalted mood delight to trace
The unseen glories of thy dwelling-place?
As Bethlehem's star wheeled up the tranquil sky,
And holy grew where on his sinless breast,
A Saviour bade the head of childhood rest.
Spirit of faith! to whose pure source we turn,
When hopes divine with holiest rapture burn,
Can reason follow thy seraphic feet
Beyond the world, to God's eternal seat?
Dear as thy promise is, O what wert thou,
Could we not image thy memorials now,
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The unseen glories of thy dwelling-place?
Consoling spirit! Eden's peerless bird!
Thy melody to loftiest musing stirred
The sightless minstrel, and thy sacred spell
Brought peace to Cowper, gladdened Tasso's cell,
Attuned the harp of Burns to strains which bear
No transient rapture to the sons of care,
Cheered the brave Korner through that weary night
Whose dreams presaged the issue of the fight,
Scott's votive steps allured to Melrose gray,
Whose pensive beauty woke his noble lay,
From sorrow's thrall gave Hemans sweet release,
And Byron armed to war for conquered Greece,
Forever green bade Goldsmith's hawthorn wave,
And wreathed the surge o'er Shelley's ocean-grave!
Thy melody to loftiest musing stirred
The sightless minstrel, and thy sacred spell
Brought peace to Cowper, gladdened Tasso's cell,
Attuned the harp of Burns to strains which bear
No transient rapture to the sons of care,
Cheered the brave Korner through that weary night
Whose dreams presaged the issue of the fight,
Scott's votive steps allured to Melrose gray,
Whose pensive beauty woke his noble lay,
From sorrow's thrall gave Hemans sweet release,
And Byron armed to war for conquered Greece,
Forever green bade Goldsmith's hawthorn wave,
And wreathed the surge o'er Shelley's ocean-grave!
And some upon our free Atlantic shore,
Redeeming spirit, thy domain explore,
In deathless marble lines of beauty trace,
Or weave in language images of grace;
Like Allston, silent poetry infuse
Through speaking forms, and more than living hues;
With Irving's diction noble thoughts prolong,
Or follow Bryant through the maze of song.
Redeeming spirit, thy domain explore,
In deathless marble lines of beauty trace,
Or weave in language images of grace;
Like Allston, silent poetry infuse
Through speaking forms, and more than living hues;
With Irving's diction noble thoughts prolong,
Or follow Bryant through the maze of song.
Celestial gift! whene'er entranced we feel
Thy sacred rapture o'er our spirits steal,
From morn's rich beauty, evening's sweet repose,
The gleam of dew, or bloom of vernal rose;
Whether thy greeting come in music rare,
Or on the balm that scents the summer air,
Speak in the artist's touch, the minstrel's tone,
Or in the poet's thought—thy secret throne,
Lurk in the grove, or cloud's refulgent dress,
The ocean's roar, or zephyrs' soft caress;
Whether thy smile illume the midnight sky,
Or, all concentered, beam from woman's eye,
Thou art the chosen herald from above,
And thy eternal message—God is Love.
Thy sacred rapture o'er our spirits steal,
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The gleam of dew, or bloom of vernal rose;
Whether thy greeting come in music rare,
Or on the balm that scents the summer air,
Speak in the artist's touch, the minstrel's tone,
Or in the poet's thought—thy secret throne,
Lurk in the grove, or cloud's refulgent dress,
The ocean's roar, or zephyrs' soft caress;
Whether thy smile illume the midnight sky,
Or, all concentered, beam from woman's eye,
Thou art the chosen herald from above,
And thy eternal message—God is Love.
| Poems | |