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THE CALYCANTHUS.
INSCRIBED TO MY MOTHER.
A little Conjurer before me stood.
Upon his head he wore a purple hood;
And yet no mystic word or sign
Gave tokens of his wizard power.
He seemed a modest, pretty Flower,—
Such as might grace a Poet's line,
Or Painter love in golden locks to wreathe;
Nor seemed he other till my throbbing heart
Felt in his odorous breath his mighty art:
Such breath can only magic breathe!
Upon his head he wore a purple hood;
And yet no mystic word or sign
Gave tokens of his wizard power.
He seemed a modest, pretty Flower,—
Such as might grace a Poet's line,
Or Painter love in golden locks to wreathe;
Nor seemed he other till my throbbing heart
Felt in his odorous breath his mighty art:
Such breath can only magic breathe!
Scarce was my spirit of the truth aware
When straight it cleaved a thousand miles of air.
I trod, methought, my native land;
Where many a long-forgotten pleasure,
Like many a spendthrift's early treasure,
Lay buried 'neath Time's dropping sand;
That ever-dropping sand that never drifts;
Though whirlwinds sweep it, still unmoved that piles
Its grain on grain; still climbing up to miles,—
To where not Himalaya lifts.
When straight it cleaved a thousand miles of air.
I trod, methought, my native land;
Where many a long-forgotten pleasure,
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Lay buried 'neath Time's dropping sand;
That ever-dropping sand that never drifts;
Though whirlwinds sweep it, still unmoved that piles
Its grain on grain; still climbing up to miles,—
To where not Himalaya lifts.
But Time, with all his load, was then as naught;
The wizard Flower had in my vision wrought
The gift to see through mountain years.
O, then how swift upon me thronging
Came every childish hope and longing,
And causeless smiles, and sunny tears
That fell as if in mockery of grief,
Making their rosy journeys from the eye
In laughing dimples for a while to lie,
Then yield a life as bright as brief!
The wizard Flower had in my vision wrought
The gift to see through mountain years.
O, then how swift upon me thronging
Came every childish hope and longing,
And causeless smiles, and sunny tears
That fell as if in mockery of grief,
Making their rosy journeys from the eye
In laughing dimples for a while to lie,
Then yield a life as bright as brief!
Again the tiny Artist toiled apart
Beneath that fervid sun,—nor dreamt of Art.
The gay Pomegranate dropped anew,—
As if to tempt his mimic powers,—
Her gold and crimson solid flowers,
That soon to fairy vases grew;
The giant Pine looked down upon the boat
Carved from his bark, and seemed in murmurs hoarse,
But gentle as the Child, to bless its course,
When that the little craft should float.
Beneath that fervid sun,—nor dreamt of Art.
The gay Pomegranate dropped anew,—
As if to tempt his mimic powers,—
Her gold and crimson solid flowers,
That soon to fairy vases grew;
The giant Pine looked down upon the boat
Carved from his bark, and seemed in murmurs hoarse,
But gentle as the Child, to bless its course,
When that the little craft should float.
And then how long, how full of time, did seem
A single day in this my dreamed-o'er dream!
For all I saw the teeming mind
Had gifted with some wondrous story;
The aged Oak, whose moss-beard hoary
Waved to the fitful evening wind,
Was but the spirit of some Ogre, bound
In other shape, and doomed, for cruel thirst
Of infant's blood, to quit his form accursed,—
Then rooted to enchanted ground.
A single day in this my dreamed-o'er dream!
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Had gifted with some wondrous story;
The aged Oak, whose moss-beard hoary
Waved to the fitful evening wind,
Was but the spirit of some Ogre, bound
In other shape, and doomed, for cruel thirst
Of infant's blood, to quit his form accursed,—
Then rooted to enchanted ground.
Deep mystery! that the Soul, as not content
To see, to hear, should thus her own moods vent,—
Living as 't were in all that lives!
E'en as the ever-changing Ocean,
Whether in calmed rest or motion,
Its own transforming image gives;
Sending its terrors into hearts of stone
Till human wailing swells the dooming roar;
Or, smoothly sleeping near some fearful shore,
Dyes rocks in beauty not their own.
To see, to hear, should thus her own moods vent,—
Living as 't were in all that lives!
E'en as the ever-changing Ocean,
Whether in calmed rest or motion,
Its own transforming image gives;
Sending its terrors into hearts of stone
Till human wailing swells the dooming roar;
Or, smoothly sleeping near some fearful shore,
Dyes rocks in beauty not their own.
Ah, never will return those loving days,
So loath to part,—those fond, reluctant rays
That seemed to haunt the summer's eve.
And, O, what charm of magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave,
When by my bed I saw my Mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss?
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this,—
E'en now that hallowed kiss I feel.
So loath to part,—those fond, reluctant rays
That seemed to haunt the summer's eve.
And, O, what charm of magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave,
When by my bed I saw my Mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss?
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this,—
E'en now that hallowed kiss I feel.
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