University of Virginia Library

Wilt thou come, and sit with me,
Sweet companion, Poesy?
We will seek some quiet scene,
That thou lovest—where the green,
Overarching boughs, have made
Coolest twilight with their shade;
Where the golden-pinioned beam
'Mongst the enwoven leaves doth gleam,
In its idlesse working out
Shining tracery all about;
Where, like music in a dream,
Murmureth soft the rippling stream;
Where the small bird, timidly
Chirpeth low, in flitting by,
And the very wind doth take
Gentler measures, so to make
Harmony with all things there;—
Wilt thou seek this refuge, fair?
Wilt thou come, and sit with me,
Sweet companion, Poesy?

I am weary of the sound,
That doth compass me around;—
Weary of the strife and toil,
Weary of the vain turmoil;—
False and empty seems to me,
All this worldly pageantry,
And I long to free again
From the clasping of its chain,
My worn spirit, that doth sigh
For the calm, pure founts, that lie
Underneath thy halcyon sky.

Come, and thou shalt weave me there,
With the sunlight and the air,—
With the whispering secrecies
Of the winds, and waving trees;—
With the odours, rich and rare,
That to thee a tribute are;
With the silvery sound, that wells
From the ringing lily-bells;
With all voices, as they rise,
All sweet, pastoral melodies,
All calm breathings of the earth,
Rapid utterances of mirth,
And her plaintive wailing too,
When she weepeth tears of dew,
And the rayless gloom doth lie
On her glory, mournfully;—
With all these, and more than these,
With thy subtlest phantasies,
Thou shalt weave a web so fine,
Of such workmanship divine,
That no gross, dull thought, I ween,
Shall have power to glide between,
No discordant, worldly din,
Break the tranced calm within.

Thou shalt tell me, laughingly,
Stories of the mystic Pan;
How his jocund company,
Viewless now, to eye of man,
People still the forest glades;
How adown their deep arcades,
Faun and Satyr, in and out,
'Mongst the trees, a noisy rout,
In their olden gladness, shout.

Then, in pity, thou wilt breathe
On the vapours, that enwreath
My dim vision;—with new light,
I shall view all things aright.
I shall see the Dryad, laid
In repose, beneath the shade
Of her own wide-spreading tree;
'Midst the waters, sporting free,
I shall meet the flashing eyes
Of the river-deities;
Nymphs, beside each sparkling fountain,
Oreads, on every mountain,
While afar, but thither borne,
Swelling sound of sylvan horn,
Pipe, and tabour minstrelsy,
Tell of jollity and glee,
Wheresoe'er, in wood or vale,
Pan doth hold high festival.

Then, at turning of thy glass,
O'er the scene, a change shall pass;—
Shades fall thickly round about,
Clustering stars shine faintly out,
And, with kindling beauty, soon
In her upward march, the moon
O'er the slumbering earth shall pour,
Softer radiance than before.
Silence that the busy day,
From his precincts drove away,
While he sleepeth, we shall see,
Timidly, and stealthily,
Gliding through the twilight back,
While sharp Echo, in her track
Croucheth, so to catch the sound
Of her footfall on the ground,
Till assured how vain his quest,
He too slumbers with the rest.
Suddenly, at dead midnight,
When the moon is at her height,
Thou shalt wave thy wand and call
Forth the elfin people all;
And we'll foot it merrily,
You and I, sweet Poesy,
Through the winding glens apace,
With that quaint and antic race,—
While they tell us, o'er and o'er,
Secrets of their fairy lore;
How, by wiles of magic sleight,
They entrap the moonbeams bright,
Which they bear, when daylight calls,
To their subterranean halls—
Then, with laughter, set them free,
To illume their revelry.
How they change, by rare device,
Dew-drops, into pearls of price;
How they charm the nightingale,
To withhold his sweetest tale,
Till the busy, garish sun,
Long his weary race hath run,
And their little band enring
The green dell, where she doth sing.
How, with gentlest ministries,
Each his willing labour plies;—
One, to raise the drooping flower,
Bent to earth, by sudden shower:
One, to weave the gossamer,
Which the roses love to wear;
One, to watch the treacherous swamp,
Holding high the glow-worm's lamp,
For a warning, not a snare,
To the traveller, unaware;
One, to steal the wasp's sharp sting,
And deprive each noxious thing
Of its venom;—One, to creep
Into rooms, where children sleep,
And with blessed dreams beguile
Their calm slumbers, all the while,
So that they, the watch who keep,
Joy to see them smile.

With swift wing, sweet Poesy,
Will the happy hours flit by,
'Mongst that merry throng;
And I wot, in after time,
When thou buildest up thy rhyme,
Thou wilt fashion, from their glee,
And their converse, cunningly,
Many an elfin song.
But meanwhile, we two will pass,
When again revolves thy glass,
With a whisper of adieu,
To “fresh fields, and pastures new;”
Thou shalt bear me in thy car,
Through the fleecy clouds afar,
Over earth, and over ocean,
With serene and steady motion,
E'en to the remotest star.
We shall hear the world-harps ringing
With their never-dying tone;
We shall hear the sweet heaven-singing,
Whence the lark doth learn his own;
When he soars at break of day,
From the mists of earth away,
Through the azure air elate,
To the shining heaven-gate,
And, ere long, his meed doth win,
Hearkening to the rapturous din
Of bird-harmonies within.

Or perchance thy mood may be,
That we commune, reverently,
With the solemn thoughts, that roll
Their wave-thunder o'er the soul;
With the strong desires, that rise,
Born of wond'rous destinies;
And the restless hopes, that quiver,
With an outspread pinion, ever
Hovering 'neath the boundless sky
Of their immortality.
Whatsoe'er thy mood, 'twill be
Happiness enough for me,
That thy subtle witchery
Worketh in me, and around;
That thine influence hath unwound
From my weary heart and brain,
The close clasping of that chain,
That doth bind me heavily—
Then, whate'er thy mood may be
Come, oh come, sweet Poesy!