The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard :: :: University of Virginia Library

The glory of the light hath died away,
The dazzled earth grows dim. And now the moon
(A silver seal upon the closing day)
Steals through the twilight, and a tranquil tune
Comes from the deep to soothe the sun's decay.
Heaven's harp hath ceased, but many an echo fair
In mellow music pants upon the air.

The sun hath sunk, but lo! there is a light
Richer than yon unsteadfast stars reveal:
The noon hath melted into chilling night,
Yet can the soul a warmth and freshness feel;
The signs and sounds of day have perished quite,
Yet hath the quiet earth a breathing given
Sweeter than all the varied sounds of heaven.

Not from the lamp within yon radiant room
Ascends the new-born beam, nor from the pride
Of Eastern art arises a perfume,
That fills a scene by beauty sanctified;
But there, arrayed in all that Luxury's loom

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Hath woven for her children, is reclined
A fair and fond creation of the mind.

From her, and from the splendour of her face,
The night hath caught its lustre wild and warm;
All that is there, of grandeur or of grace,
Its proud impression traces from the form,
That, like the ruling pleasure of the place,
Shows in the midst the figure of a dream
Where love had learnt his first and tenderest theme.

Like to the old fount of old, whereof to drink
Was to inhale the fatal fire of love:
So things, not doomed from such delight to shrink,
Beneath her glance grow beautiful, above
All other tints of beauty. On the brink
Of a new joy she now resigns her veil,
And what she looks on ceases to be pale.

'Twas feigned in early time, and men have hung
Their faith upon the dream, that Love was born
Of beauty; let the truth at length be sung.
Beauty was born of Love: for pride and scorn
Have crept to him in smiles, and Time looked young.
With him the winter is no longer cold,
And summer views its dust transformed to gold.

So all about her varies with her eyes,
Beauty the sure effect, but Love the cause;

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Though in her veins a haughty transport vies
With natural tenderness; whose milder laws
Her spirits may o'erleap but not despise.
Thus, softly stern, she points to the sublime,
The splendour and the sweetness of her clime.

Her slightly closing eyelids well express,
With the full pride of passions and the sense
Of power but half displayed—the consciousness
That only joy, unmingled and intense,
Is present to her eyes; which, sent to bless
The turbaned tyrant of some lavish land,
See all its ripe fruits falling to her hand.

But on her smooth cheeks shows a settled flush
Of Love's fine fever; not the single hue
Of youth for its own beauties taught to blush,
But a mute mingling of emotions true,
Peaceful yet all impassioned; till a gush
Of glory o'er her brow its way hath won,
And marks a fond Sultana of the Son.

Her slaves are ready—by her couch they shine,
The genii of her passions. From her arm,
All richly rounded by a taste divine,
One bending girl, with many a graceful charm,
The glittering circlet draws. But the deep mine
Of ocean hath no pearl like that soft skin,
The sky no tincture like the tide within.

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Close at her side another damsel stands,
A sun-taught creature of voluptuous lore,
Ready to fan her; or with glancing hands
To scatter sweets upon the silken floor,
Or loose her bosom from its gentle bands—
That flashes from beneath its slight cimar,
As through a cloud the lightening of a star.

But chief a sable slave, of quaintest mien,
And garb grotesque and costly, stoops to raise
Her veil, as some dark vapour may be seen
Unfolding the fair day. And he surveys
Love's early sunshine, fervent but serene,
And feels his frozen spirit warm the while,
His face uncouthly curling to a smile.

And with that aged slave awaits a train
Of youthful figures, winged at her will;
And all about are glistening tokens lain
Of exquisite device, and wrought with skill.
All that can breathe delight, and banish pain,
From earth's bright circle, gathers round a spot
Where grief might well be hushed and guilt forgot.

Thus in the centre of the group, impressed
With the full life of that luxuriant hour,
Shaming the gems of her imperial vest,
Yet softly languid, fainting like a flower,
'Mid draperies of silk her light limbs rest;
And thus beneath the charm of summer airs,
The sweet Sultana for her bath prepares.

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How will the willing waters curl around
Their dainty visitant? What sparkles clear,
And what a welcome of enraptured sound,
Will rise to meet her on her cool career!
And glancing from her to its marble bound,
Each melting wave, while lucidly revealing
Her form, will waken up some pleasant feeling.

There in the night beneath a silence deep
Thus whitely visible behold her glide,
A wonder in the waters! come to steep
In living joy a breast too bright to hide.
Methinks the elements would seem to weep
As from each rising limb, in pearly rain,
It drips like dew into its fount again.

And having passed that baptism of pure pleasure—
The weary warmth and deep luxuriance
Of day subsiding to a milder measure—
She wraps her senses in a shadowy trance,
Tempting the night to day with Hope's own treasure;
Dim dreams and winged visions—fairy things
That gush from out our sleep like desert springs.

And sad it were, and sad it is, to find
A harsher moral in a fate so fair;
To feel that some dark venom lurks behind,
Like insects that have golden wings, but bear
A poisoned body; to behold the mind,
Where all beside a ripening radiance found,
Barren and blighted on that holy ground.

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To see the wings of Freedom flap the dust,
Or view her signs but as the darts of old
That, flying, turned to fire; the simple trust
And truth of life exchanged for caution cold;
The ample theme of Reason undiscussed,
And man's high spirits stooping from the skies
Seeking on earth a sensual paradise.

Yet, ah! what a marvel if for hearts like hers
The failing mind at last forget to soar!
Circled with joy, and shunning all that stirs
The soul with stronger hopes, it bows before
The altar of a faith which, whilst it errs,
Makes glad our way with pleasures unrepressed,
Till life's loud rapture ends in silent rest.

And for the fair Sultana, if we trace
No cloud upon her cheek, nor sign of woe,
It is her clime that lightens through her face.
And as the Prophet's fabled regions show
Forms that glide shadowless along the space,
So she on earth, a dream that cannot fade,
Might move amid the light and leave no shade.