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 | The magic fountain |  |
66
E'en in thy youth's first efforts might be traced
The embryo giant—this the critic saw not,
And struck and stung thee—in his turn to writhe
Within thy mighty grasp.—With what a strength
Of ray, that lightened through the gloomy clouds
Which formed his palace, rose the unsetting sun
Of thine own Harold's glories! How our hearts
Thrilled at thy young Giaour's wild and broken tale!
How bled they o'er the melancholy fates
Of the two lovers of Abydos—one
Mixing his life-blood with the dashing wave,
One dying in her terror's agony!
There was no pause to wondering—as to flash
Succeeds a brighter flash, when summer storms
Robe the dim mountains with sublimity,
So song magnificent gave place to song
Still more magnificent—until the eye,
Dazzled with splendour, scarcely deigned to look
On mightiest of contemporary bards!
And critics, who erewhile had tried to crush thee,
Joined in a vile-breath'd humming of applause—
For they had marked thy soaring flight, and felt
They now could batten on thy fame.
The embryo giant—this the critic saw not,
And struck and stung thee—in his turn to writhe
Within thy mighty grasp.—With what a strength
Of ray, that lightened through the gloomy clouds
Which formed his palace, rose the unsetting sun
Of thine own Harold's glories! How our hearts
Thrilled at thy young Giaour's wild and broken tale!
How bled they o'er the melancholy fates
Of the two lovers of Abydos—one
Mixing his life-blood with the dashing wave,
One dying in her terror's agony!
There was no pause to wondering—as to flash
Succeeds a brighter flash, when summer storms
Robe the dim mountains with sublimity,
So song magnificent gave place to song
Still more magnificent—until the eye,
Dazzled with splendour, scarcely deigned to look
On mightiest of contemporary bards!
And critics, who erewhile had tried to crush thee,
Joined in a vile-breath'd humming of applause—
For they had marked thy soaring flight, and felt
They now could batten on thy fame.
67
Alas!
'Twas then that, loathing their rank praise, or wrung
In heart to find domestic bliss a dream,
Thy pen was dipped in bitterness; and scorn,
Licentiousness, and ribaldry combined
To dim—no! not thy genius—for e'en there
It shone pre-eminent, and half redeemed
The sullied page; but to disgrace thy name,
Thy morals, and thy heart! Thousands who made
Part of that world thy strains professed to hate,
Have felt an inward and a silent pang,
To think thou wast thine own worst enemy!
'Twas then that, loathing their rank praise, or wrung
In heart to find domestic bliss a dream,
Thy pen was dipped in bitterness; and scorn,
Licentiousness, and ribaldry combined
To dim—no! not thy genius—for e'en there
It shone pre-eminent, and half redeemed
The sullied page; but to disgrace thy name,
Thy morals, and thy heart! Thousands who made
Part of that world thy strains professed to hate,
Have felt an inward and a silent pang,
To think thou wast thine own worst enemy!
| The magic fountain | |