 | Poems |  |
23
THE JOURNEY.
[I.]
A breezy softness fills the air,That clasps the tender hand of Spring,
And yet no brooklet's voice does sing,
For all is purest stillness there,
Unless the light, soft foliage waves;
The boughs are clothed in shining green,
Through which ne'er angry Tempest raves,
And sunlight shines between.
II.
Beneath the oak a Palmer lay,
Upon the green-sward was his bed,
And its luxuriance bound the gray
And silver Laurel o'er his head.
A picture framed by calm repose,
A Grecian monument of life,
Too placid for the storm of woes,
Too grateful to be worn by strife.
I should have passed,—he bade me stay,
And tranquilly these words did say.—
Upon the green-sward was his bed,
And its luxuriance bound the gray
And silver Laurel o'er his head.
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A Grecian monument of life,
Too placid for the storm of woes,
Too grateful to be worn by strife.
I should have passed,—he bade me stay,
And tranquilly these words did say.—
Thou curtain of the tender spring,
Thy graces to my old eyes bring
The recollections of those years,
When sweet are shed our early tears,
Those days of sunny April weather,
Changeful and glad with every thing,
When Youth and Age go linked together,
Like sisters twain, and sauntering
Down mazy paths in ancient woods,
The garlands of such solitudes.—
Thy graces to my old eyes bring
The recollections of those years,
When sweet are shed our early tears,
Those days of sunny April weather,
Changeful and glad with every thing,
When Youth and Age go linked together,
Like sisters twain, and sauntering
Down mazy paths in ancient woods,
The garlands of such solitudes.—
III.
I passed along,The Palmer's song,
Still sounding with its clear content,
At length I reached my promised tent.
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The temples of a Nation's pride,
Within their clefts the bright stars smiled,
And moonlight swept the court-yard wide.
Some Ivy-boughs o'erhung the wall,
Or bound the pillars' sculptured fall,
Whilst deepening Shade lay o'er the place,
That still the grandeur would efface.
IV.
Not long I slept,—the wind awoke,A river from the mountains came,
All through the Temple's courts it broke,
While they were lit by lightning's flame.
The skies hurled down their bolts of dread,
But still my little Tent was good,
No drop of rain fell on my head,
Unarmed amid the war I stood.
V.
A mightier blast,—more lurid light,The wind dispersed my sheltering fold,
I paused an instant in the night,
Then sought that mighty Temple old.
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And bravely with the waters fought.
I saw the glancing fires design,
To smite the stone's colossal form
That jutted from the topmost line,—
Too cold that steady heart to warm;—
I gained beyond the Court a bank,
And fainting in the darkness sank.
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