 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Sage of Caucasus.—Hillhouse.
Hadad.None knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks
Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages.
In green, unbroken years, he sees, 'tis said,
The generations pass, like autumn fruits,
Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish, while he views the sun,
The seasons roll, in rapt serenity,
And high communion with celestial powers.
Some say 'tis Shem, our father; some say Enoch,
And some Melchisedek.
Tamar.
I've heard a tale
Like this, but ne'er believed it.
Had.
I have proved it.—
Through perils dire, dangers most imminent,
Seven days and nights midst rocks and wildernesses,
And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice,
Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing,
Save the far-soaring vulture, comes, I dared
My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish.
Tam.
Rash, rash advent'rer!
Had.
On the highest peak
Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot,
On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers
And verdure never die; and there he dwells.
Tam.
But did'st thou see him?
Had.
Never did I view
341
Hung like a silver mantle to his feet;
His raiment glistered saintly white; his brow
Rose like the gate of Paradise; his mouth
Was musical as its bright guardians' songs.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |