The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker ... Edited with a memoir of the author by the Rev. J. Moultrie |
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STANZAS.
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 | The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker |  |
20
STANZAS.
A chain is on my spirit's wings,
When thro' the crowded town I fare;
Spell-like, the present round me clings,
A blinding film, a stifling air.
When thro' the crowded town I fare;
Spell-like, the present round me clings,
A blinding film, a stifling air.
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But when amid the relics lone
Of other days I wander free,
My spirit feels its fetters flown,
And soars in joy and liberty.
Of other days I wander free,
My spirit feels its fetters flown,
And soars in joy and liberty.
Fresh airs blow on me from the past;
Stretch'd out above me like a sky,
Its starry dome, mysterious, vast,
Satiates my soul's capacious eye.
Stretch'd out above me like a sky,
Its starry dome, mysterious, vast,
Satiates my soul's capacious eye.
I hear the deep, the sea-like roar
Of human ages, billowing on;
No living voice, no breeze, no oar,
One awful sound is heard alone.
Of human ages, billowing on;
No living voice, no breeze, no oar,
One awful sound is heard alone.
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I feel the secret, wondrous tie
Of fellowship with ages fled;
Warm, as with man; but pure and high,
As with the sacred, changeless dead.
Of fellowship with ages fled;
Warm, as with man; but pure and high,
As with the sacred, changeless dead.
Whate'er they felt, whate'er they wrought,
Appears, sublimed from earthly stains;
What transient was, is lost to thought;
What cannot die, alone remains.
Appears, sublimed from earthly stains;
What transient was, is lost to thought;
What cannot die, alone remains.
What are our woes? the pain, the fear,
That gloom this world of time and change?
No low-born thought can enter here;
No hope, that has a bounded range.
That gloom this world of time and change?
No low-born thought can enter here;
No hope, that has a bounded range.
Thou Good unseen! thou endless End!
Last goal of hope, last bourn of love!
To thee these sleepless yearnings tend;
These views beyond, these flights above.
Last goal of hope, last bourn of love!
To thee these sleepless yearnings tend;
These views beyond, these flights above.
Past time, past space, the spirit flings
Its giant arms in search of thee;
It will not rest in bounded things;
Its Freedom is Infinity!
Its giant arms in search of thee;
It will not rest in bounded things;
Its Freedom is Infinity!
This poem was written simultaneously with another, by the late W. M. Praed; the two Poets sitting side by side and rhyming in friendly rivalry. Praed's poem is here subjoined. Alas, that the world is still waiting for the long-promised collection of all his poems!
WRITTEN BELOW THE PORTRAIT OF AN
UNKNOWN LADY.
“What are you, Lady? nought is here
To tell your name or story,
To claim for you our smile or tear,
To dub you Whig or Tory;
I don't suppose we ever met;
And how should I discover
Where first you danced a minuet,
Or first deceived a lover?
To tell your name or story,
To claim for you our smile or tear,
To dub you Whig or Tory;
I don't suppose we ever met;
And how should I discover
Where first you danced a minuet,
Or first deceived a lover?
Tell me what day the Post records
Your mother's silk and satin;
What night your father lulls the Lords
With little bits of Latin;
Who made your shoes, whose skill designs
Your dairy, or your grotto;
And in what page Debrett enshrines
Your pedigree and motto.
Your mother's silk and satin;
What night your father lulls the Lords
With little bits of Latin;
Who made your shoes, whose skill designs
Your dairy, or your grotto;
And in what page Debrett enshrines
Your pedigree and motto.
And do you sing, or do you sigh?
And have you taste in bonnets?
And do you read philosophy?
Or do you publish sonnets?
And does your beauty fling away
The fetters Cupid forges?
Or—are you to be married, pray,
To-morrow at Saint George's?”
And have you taste in bonnets?
And do you read philosophy?
Or do you publish sonnets?
And does your beauty fling away
The fetters Cupid forges?
Or—are you to be married, pray,
To-morrow at Saint George's?”
I spoke! methought the pencilled fan
Fluttered, or seemed to flutter;—
Methought the painted lips began
Unearthly sounds to utter:
“I have no home, no ancestry,
No wealth, no reputation;
My name, fair Sir, is Nobody;
Am I not your relation?”
Fluttered, or seemed to flutter;—
Methought the painted lips began
Unearthly sounds to utter:
“I have no home, no ancestry,
No wealth, no reputation;
My name, fair Sir, is Nobody;
Am I not your relation?”
| The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker | |