The battle of Niagara :: :: University of Virginia Library

We thank thee that another year
Hath rolled around, and left us here:
We thank thee that the glorious birth
Of him, thy minister on earth,
Is still to us so dear.

Young prince of air! whose glittering bow,
By us, thy worshippers below!
Is seen athwart our darkest heaven!
In quenchless and eternal light!
A blazing constellation given
Amid the season of the night!

Arise!—Arise!
Young archer of the skies,

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Our chosen deity!
O bend thy bow of might,
And 'mid the vaulted night,
While we uprear
Our hands to thee;
Appear! appear!
In thy dim majesty!

O thou of heaven, Apollo thou,
Shine out upon thy votaries now!

Show out thy mysteries where
Thou tread'st the lifeless air:
On the motionless cloud,
Be thy harpers arrayed;
Where shadowy faces crowd,
With forms of shade.

Thy musick too! O, be it heard
So faintly, that its sounds may seem
The warblings of some hidden bird,
That we have sought for in a dream.

Unfurl thy thin transparent sail,
That we have seen so often spread,
And bosom to the silent gale,
That wafts the spirits of the dead.

That seems to all but Delphian eyes
A vapour passing o'er the skies.
While 'tis, to us, the floating veil,

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That, with its shadowy light, enshrouds
Thy sister's cold, sweet face in clouds.

To us—the showy, bannered air,
That streaming, flutters down the heaven,
When o'er the clouds assembled there,
With sounding wheels and flaming hair,
Thy conquering steeds in light are driven!

It is the pure transparency
By angel-fingers spun,
That wraps young love and infancy;
That veils the glowing face
Of nakedness and grace:
'Tis woven in the twilight beam,
And coloured in the blushing stream,
Beneath the setting sun.

Such is a cloud to Delphian-eyes!
The strangest wonder of the skies,
At morn—at noon—at night;
For ever changing as it flies,
Unfolding still its rainbow dyes,
For ever on the sight.

O, then unfurl that sail again,
And let us see o'er heaven's blue main,
Thy boat go swift and silently,
And hear the faint, uncertain chime,
Of bards that were in older time,
Who sit, and as they sail along

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Awake a wild, and mingling song—
That tells of immortality!

Pronounce thine adjurations there!
And summon from each cemetry,
Thy earliest Delphians, 'till the air
Is bright with harps! and loud with minstrelsy!

O let them not profane this hour,
And slumber in thy time of power!
But let thy ministers proclaim,
Through all the air,
In musick and in flame,
That thou art there!

Let all that in the darkness dwell,
In silence or in solitude,
In cavern or in wood,
Now hear thy harp's triumphant swell!
And, lifted by thy fearful spell,
From the fathomless deep,
Come forth in their sleep!
From the field of blood
Where the soldier lies;—
And the restless flood,
Where the sailor dies.

From the pathless wild,
Where, o'er the pilgrim's bones,
Or Nature's child—
And heaps of warrior Indians lie—

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The old decaying trees,
Like spirits on the breeze,
In strange—low—interrupted tones,
Are swinging mournfully!

From ocean's shore,
Where the sea-maids pour
A watery lamentation o'er
The dripping locks of some sweet form,
Just shipwrecked in the passing storm,
And weep and blow their melancholy shells;
And ring their sweet-toned coral bells,
Like murmurings from a cloud!

O let them all appear!
The spectres of the mind,
Of phrensy or of fear,
Careering on the wind!

O strike the note! and from his bier,
Each tenant of the deep will rise,
With motionless eyes;
And each his coral sceptre rear—
And each before our face appear,
Within his sea-grass shroud!

Let all that in the darkness dwell—
Now see thy form, and hear the swell
Of ancient harpers, loudly singing!
And from thy vaulted dwelling place,
Amid the solitudes of space,

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Far thunders roll their awful base,
And harps and trumpets ringing!

Now be our invocation done!—
For lo!—Apollo of the sun,
Hangs out his starry lyre,
With frame of gold and strings of fire,
Upon our midnight firmament!
And now his bow of quenchless light
Is brightening on our sight—
And now 'tis slowly bent!
All hail to this auspicious hour!
These are the symbols of his power:
In mercy they are sent.

Apollo! god of poesy!
Of eloquence and light,
Of life, and pride, and ecstacy,
Is manifest to night!

O, let the air we breath be flame,
And let our echoing hearts proclaim,
In musick to the sky—
That he, the Delphian god! is near,
That he, our chosen one! is here,
'Till he, the god of song! is heard
In every Delphian-word;
'Till he, the god of light! is seen,
Like sunshine where the clouds have been,
Warm—lovely—and serene,
In every Delphian-eye!

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Arise!—arise!
Proclaim ye to the skies!
That he hath left his dwelling place,
His chariot of revolving light;
And turn'd his coursers in the race—
When stretching o'er the bounds of space,
To fill our halls and hearts to night!

Then let us raise our hymning higher,
Sound every trumpet, harp, and lyre,
That he to man hath given;
'Till all that revel in the sky,
Uplifting high,
Their sullen midnight canopy,
Hang lingering as they're hurried by,
And poised upon their viewless wing,
Repeat the anthem that we sing
To him, the tenant of high heaven!

And now, Apollo! now,
Again we bow,
To thee,
In fervour and sincerity!

Another year has travelled round,
And still within this ring we're found,
Like one that treads enchanted ground,
For ever lingering in it!
We feel as we approach its verge,
Like one, that on a precipice,
Recoiling from a dim abyss,
Stand listening to the surge!

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He dare not step—there's danger when
He puts his foot beyond the bound;
'Tis so with us—beyond are men
Too little like what here are found
Within this circle there's a power
That charms a year into a hour,
An hour into a minute!

This—like the boundaries drawn on air,
By angel—wings that eddy there,
Is felt, but never seen;
A strange, unearthly atmosphere,
Is ever warm and breathing here,
As if there's something heavenly near,
Invisibly serene!
The summer of the heart is found,
For ever, in this viewless bound,
While all beyond is cold;
And here, for ever may be seen,
The constant-branching evergreen;
The verdure of the heart, that spreads,
A living arbour o'er our heads;
The laurels of the brain, that grow,
In intellectual light, and throw
Their streaming garlands round our hair,
Self-woven in immortal air;
And all the flowers of heaven, that blow,
Beneath the fierce and feverish glow,
Of him, our god! whose burning face,
Within this consecrated place,
The Delphians in their dreams behold!

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This viewless prison-house of ours,
That holds our spirits captive here,
Is not a temple wrought with flowers,
That, stripped from Dissipation's bowers,
Are hung in empty mockery,
Where idleness and revelry,
In festival appear—

'Tis not a ring by pleasure traced:
No foaming goblets round are placed—
No woven flowers, nor mingling vines,
Of aught, that young Volupte twines,
Nor white arms interlaced;—
Nor snowy breasts—nor sparkling eyes,
Around our haunts obedient rise,
To grace our midnight mysteries.

Our viewless boundary is a chain
That passes through each heart,
That—lengthened—soon contracts again,
That—rent—is always rent in vain,
The links—are load-stones of the brain!
And can't be kept apart!

These unseen bands of strength that bind
Our hearts and souls, are intertwined,
By wit, and sympathy, and mind—
Unseen, 'tis true, as they were traced
Upon the ocean-waste,
But steady as the eternal chain,
That fetters the rebellious main

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Whence is this knitting of our souls?
Whence is the magick that controls
Our wandering thought, and keeps us here?
It is the band of brotherhood—
By genius only understood—
To genius only dear:

The flash of wit and light of song,
The stream of heart that pours along,
Betraying in its course,
Ten thousand precious things that grow
Upon its bank—like founts that flow,
Abruptly from a hidden source,
Whose shining wave and joyful sound,
For ever turn us wondering round,
Like traveller o'er some desert ground,
Some wilderness or mountain,
That smiles to hear the gushing bound
Of some fresh springing fountain;
And stands, with folded arms, to see,
However thirsty he may be,
Its young tide rippling cheerfully,
And round about in murmurs stealing,
Now running there, and hiding here,
As 'twere—some living thing in fear;
And still ten thousand tints revealing,
Like serpent in the grass concealing;
While all the drowsy buds awake,
Unfolding in their starry pride,
And dip their bright green leaves and shake
Their silvery blossoms o'er the tide.

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And with his eyes uplifted sees—
A new creation in the breeze—
The glittering willow wave its leaves,
The emerald turf itself grow brighter;
And garlands that dear Nature weaves,
Upon the lifting wind—dance lighter.

So 'tis with us—a sudden stream
Comes from the desert, with a gleam
Of loveliness and mystery;
And lo! unnumbered things concealed
In every heart—are then revealed
And shine in every eye:

'Tis this that facinates us here;
That makes this social group so dear;
That binds us to each other:
'Tis this that makes the lengthening year
That's past in light—to us appear
A cloudless momentary dream;
A lovely—wandering beam,
That chanced—in passing o'er a crowd
Of strangers—gathered in a cloud,
To show to each—his brother!
A lovely beam! that fell astray,
As if it were to show us this;
That we had chosen a clouded way
Upon a crumbling precipice;
That men were made for men, and must
Commingle in their light;

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That souls within their sheaths will rust,
But brighten in the fight:
That all the weapons of the mind
In solitude consume away;
The bow strings, and the shafts designed
Alike for song, and strife and play,
The lightning that immortals wield,
The flashing blade and flaming shield—
All—all—when they have left the field—
Grow dim and waste away!

O then be this our prayer!
Still may that beam be playing there;
Whene'er we go astray!
Assembled as we are to-night,
Be still our shields and weapons bright,
'Till gathered for the judgment day—
Beneath a far more fearful cloud,
We hear far trumpets bursting loud,
And gaze on every passing shroud,
To catch one melancholy ray.

Be this our prayer. O may we meet,
O many an hour as rich as this!
'Till every heart forgets to beat;
And may such precious moments cheat
Our spirits to forgetfulness;
'Till all the icy hearts abroad,
On life's unhospitable road,
Are all forgotten or forgiven;
And may the path we tread to night,

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Be trodden 'till each Delphian light
Be quenched or set in heaven.

Our week of cheerless toil once past,
This holy sabbath comes at last,
This sabbath of the heart!
This lovely hour!—O be it blest,
In mental fellowship and rest,
And be it ever set apart!
For ever, while we stay on earth,
For art and science, song and mirth,
'Till other Delphians burst from night,
And all the world is filled with light!

From our cluster of stars, it is true,
One, holy and bright, is withdrawn,
'Twas the herald of evening and dew,
And the star of a lustreless morn.

For whole seasons that star was alone,
Alone—in its fathomless sphere,
For whole seasons its splendours had shone,
Unobscured—for no other was near:

For the dark of its sky was too deep,
Its ray was too mild and serene,
It was hastening away to its sleep,
And none would have known it had been!

But others were wandering around,
Like that, unobserved in the sky,

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Alone in the vaulted profound,
Too dim—and too far for the eye—

But lo! it once chanced, in the route
Of two, that were bosomed in space,
That they touched, as they wandered about,
And each then abandoned its place—

And one was the star that is gone,
The other is here in its light;
'Tis our centre and pride—'tis the one
About whom we gather to-night.

The conjunction was watched in the sky,
And others soon came afar;
A new Pleiades blazed on the eye,
And chose for their centre this star!

Yes—one of our group is withdrawn;
One star of our worship is gone,
But its place was supplied
By another that came,
In lustre and pride,
O'er an orbit of flame—

And yet another—in the place
Whence that has been translated—
Goes brightening o'er the tract of space—
Sublimely elevated—

Another from our heaven of pride
Is blotted out for ever,

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O, never be his place supplied!
No—never!
A dreary blank were better far,
Than such a smoking foggy star—

To him—our chief—one parting strain;
O, may he long our chief remain!
May he, to whom we kneel,
Apollo! of the silver bow,
His starry harp on him bestow!
And all the mysteries of space,
The wonders of his beaming face,
To him, our chief, reveal!

O, let us ne'er forget the night,
When he—our chief—burst into light;
When, having reared a pillared dome,
We rose to consecrate a home,
Where Science—Wit—and Song might dwell;
And Wonder work his spell;
And Genius stay his blazing march,
And Musick hang her dripping shell.
Where all the Muses might suspend
Their ringing harps—and Fancy bend
With Intellect in prayer;
Oh then,
Amid the sons of men,
Our chief appeared!
His hand upreared—
And lo! upon the air,

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We saw a temple building! where
Strange musick we had heard!
Then let our chief be loudly named;
With trumpets be his might proclaimed;
He reared this architectural swell!
He fixed the key-stone of our arch!

Then hail to our chief in the tumult of song,
Let the hymn of his praises go pealing along!
May the swell of his heart be for ever the same;
May the light of his brain
Undiminished remain,
To brighten our path to the temple of Fame:
O may he be crowned by the wreath of the mind!
The wreath that Apollo in glory hath twined;
The leaves all of light and the blossoms of flame!

And may his harp, this night bequeathed,
By him, our god—with fire be wreathed,
And may that bow of strength be bent,
Through time with still encreasing force!
May every sun's revolving course,
Still find him here,
To Delphians dear,
Our chief—our glory—and our pride!
And when the messenger is sent—
And he to heaven is called at last,
Upon Apollo's tide,
Or on the roaring blast—
O, may he as he hurries past,

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Pour bravely out
One farewell shout,
To us, his Delphians here below!
And with his harp, and with his bow,
Go thundering o'er the firmament!