The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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TO THE COUNTESS B---. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
TO THE COUNTESS B---.
The beautiful, that brings our Eden back,
That plants a fresher Paradise on earth,
That scatters sweetest flowers upon our track,
And fills the vales with songs of joy and mirth—
Beauty of stars, and sky, and summer tree:
This is the poet's joy, his hope, or misery.
That plants a fresher Paradise on earth,
That scatters sweetest flowers upon our track,
And fills the vales with songs of joy and mirth—
Beauty of stars, and sky, and summer tree:
This is the poet's joy, his hope, or misery.
The shadow of the young and vernal world
When first the spheres their primal music brought;
When Chaos from his rocky throne was hurl'd,
And heaven illumed the caves of human thought—
Then was the birth of beauty, then the ray,
The morning sunlight of Love's cloudless day.
When first the spheres their primal music brought;
When Chaos from his rocky throne was hurl'd,
And heaven illumed the caves of human thought—
Then was the birth of beauty, then the ray,
The morning sunlight of Love's cloudless day.
And what if Eden's flowers were bright and fair,—
The meadows lovely, and the heavens serene?—
There was not blossom sweeter on the air,
Nor star more radiant on the azure sheen,
Nor flower that breathed more fragrant to the wind
Than her the first,—the mother of mankind!
The meadows lovely, and the heavens serene?—
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Nor star more radiant on the azure sheen,
Nor flower that breathed more fragrant to the wind
Than her the first,—the mother of mankind!
Lady, the times are changed, the voice is o'er
That spake on earth, the joyous tones are gone;
But, though the lights of Eden please no more,
And Beauty, like a mourner sighs alone:—
Yet, Lady, such as thou can'st bring again,
The dream seraphic, and the Orphic strain!
That spake on earth, the joyous tones are gone;
But, though the lights of Eden please no more,
And Beauty, like a mourner sighs alone:—
Yet, Lady, such as thou can'st bring again,
The dream seraphic, and the Orphic strain!
Love was young Beauty's sister,—it was thine:
It mingled with thy life, and made thee wise
With heart entrancements, harmony divine,
As morn with warmer light illumes the skies;
And he the lord and king of British Song
Thee worshipp'd most, amid the courtly throng:—
It mingled with thy life, and made thee wise
With heart entrancements, harmony divine,
As morn with warmer light illumes the skies;
And he the lord and king of British Song
Thee worshipp'd most, amid the courtly throng:—
With thee to gaze on blue Italian skies,
To wander where old Alps majestic reigns;
Where Jura, in his giant terror lies,
And Arno rolls through wide and fertile plains—
And Beauty mingling with the Poet's lyre,
Waken'd the chords, and lit the Prophet fire.
To wander where old Alps majestic reigns;
Where Jura, in his giant terror lies,
And Arno rolls through wide and fertile plains—
And Beauty mingling with the Poet's lyre,
Waken'd the chords, and lit the Prophet fire.
O hope! O joy! that I, whose humble note
Was bounded by my native hills and vales;
Whose strain is known but to the desert spot,
Or, murmurs faintly to the mountain gales—
Should know thy smile, and feel thy honour'd name
Infuse fresh impulse to the work of Fame.
Was bounded by my native hills and vales;
Whose strain is known but to the desert spot,
Or, murmurs faintly to the mountain gales—
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Infuse fresh impulse to the work of Fame.
The glow of youth is fresh upon thy face,
The flash of feeling glistens in thine eye;
Still are thy motions ripe with winning grace,
And white-robed thought illumes thy forehead high:
Nor courtly halls, nor concourse proud and gay,
Have dimm'd thy soul, nor quench'd thy former sway.
The flash of feeling glistens in thine eye;
Still are thy motions ripe with winning grace,
And white-robed thought illumes thy forehead high:
Nor courtly halls, nor concourse proud and gay,
Have dimm'd thy soul, nor quench'd thy former sway.
Fair Lady,—o'er the hills, and o'er the sea,
From the far valley, hear a Poet's strain;
If poor the gift, the offering is free—
Free from a heart that bows to Beauty's reign;
Nor gold could buy it, nor the monarch's throne,
But loveliness, and truth, and thee alone!
From the far valley, hear a Poet's strain;
If poor the gift, the offering is free—
Free from a heart that bows to Beauty's reign;
Nor gold could buy it, nor the monarch's throne,
But loveliness, and truth, and thee alone!
| The bard, and minor poems | |