University of Virginia Library

I sat at the foot of an old beech tree,
While winds in its branches sigh'd mournfully,
And soft leaves met trembling, and languid fell,
Like hands of young lovers, that say Farewell.
And the bird that at even-tide sings alone,
Was pouring her mellow and dreamy tone.—
My spirit went back to the seasons gone—
And my bosom it seem'd like a cold grave-stone—
Which lieth alone in some dreary place,
Engraven with legends of former days.
Of long perish'd loves, and of hopes half blown,
Which Memory gather'd, and made her own.
Oh Memory! when in the ways of life
The spirit grows weary of care and strife,
The brow is begirt with a wither'd wreath,
The heart has become as the house of death,
When fountains are dry, where we lov'd to drink,
And we languish in agony on the brink.
When sorrow has spread over all bright things,
The mildewing damp of her heavy wings;
We worship thee, gentle and dreamy power,
Who steal'st along in that lonely hour,
With pitcher fresh fill'd at the fount of youth,
With beauty, and innocence, love, and truth.

And is there, I murmur'd, no holy home,
Where sorrow, and suffering, never come,
Where tenderness burns with a steady glow,
Untouch'd by the finger of change or wo.
Where poetry weaves, with a living sound,
Her tissue of beauty and bliss, all round?

The full moon arose like a living scroll,
On which I had written my youthful soul,
When weaving bright webs of her silver beams,
I broider'd them over with golden dreams;
Enwreathing love's rose in its richest hue,
With the modest young violet's truthful blue.
While hope linger'd by with her gentle mien,
And touch'd with her pencil each shadow'd scene.
Oh, brightly they glitter'd around me then,
By Memory spread in that magic glen,
Till every wild flower, with its dewy eye,
Became a lov'd face of the years gone by.

So gracefully now, like a wandering dove,
A silver-wing'd vapour appear'd above,—
Well might it claim from the Moon its birth,
And bear a fond message from her to earth.
Lo! it approach'd me, a shadowy boat,
Design'd on the moon's silver sea to float,
Oh, brightly its gossamer streamers flow'd,
And purely its pearly white bottom show'd,
With radiant spirits to guide its way,
And now at my feet the bright phantom lay.
Come!—cried the spirits in accents sweet,
And gaily I sprang to the shining seat.
So gracefully then, like a pleasant dream,
Or white thistle down, on a gentle stream,
Arose on a zephyr, that shallop fair,
And speeded away on the waveless air.
We speedily came where the meteors bright
Were crossing our track in their dizzy flight,
Careering along with their choral hymn
Through regions that else would be still and dim,
The flamy-wing'd creatures went flashing by,
Each guiding its chariot gloriously.

The moon, toward which we had held our flight,
Was suddenly lost in a flood of light—
A light so entrancingly pure and clear,
It seem'd like the spirit's own atmosphere.
And now we look'd down on a world as bright
As earth in the robe of a winter night;
But there was no chill in the balmy air
That lay like an ocean of fragrance there,
As limpid and pure, as the floods that swell
From the deep down spring of a mountain well.
Yet ocean, nor river, nor dancing rill,
Appear'd in that country by vale and hill,
But no one could thirst, where an air like this,
Bath'd bosom and brow in its balmy bliss.
Then softly we floated above a scene
That dazzled the eye with its holy sheen;
Where lofty trees rose over lovely bowers,
And valleys were carpeted o'er with flowers;
But blossom and bud were as bright as snow,
And leaves wore a beautiful silver glow,
And the stems and the grasses were feather'd o'er
Like frost-spangled reeds on a river shore.
The ground was as bright as the wave-wash'd sand
That glitters along by an ocean strand,
And zephyrs went by with a gentle sound,
Like rivulets murmuring all around;
And heavy leav'd trees by their pinions fann'd,
Were shadowless all in that magic land.
And beautiful creatures were moving there,
With silvery garments, and long fair hair,
And lips with a tinge like the small pink shells
That lie where the musical south sea dwells.
And tenderness trembled in each soft eye
Like beautiful stars in the clear blue sky.
Oh welcome! they cried as they gather'd round,
With voices of melody's own rich sound.
Oh welcome, dear sister, to this bright home
Where spirits of melody only come.
We never know pain in this happy land,
Where death cannot come with his drooping band—
Where change never touches our souls, or forms,
And flowers ne'er perish by time, or storms,
Where never a shadow, by day or night,
Has darken'd the tender and holy light.
And here are no hues of the changeful crest
That blooms but to wither, on earth's foul breast,
Unfolding a moment to fade away,
And poison life's fountain with sure decay.
Nor here bloom the buds of the fading earth
In beauty that dies in its hour of birth,
But beauty unchangeable, pure, and bright,
Abiding for ever, in balm and light.
And this is the country thou long hast sought,
Repining for ever in dreamy thought,
A region where perfect affection reigns,
And melody mingles immortal strains;
Aye, here we may bathe in the peace of heaven.
[OMITTED]
Ah! Ha! 'Tis the gloomy owl's voice of fear,
That startles so harshly my drowsy ear;
The dews of the night on my eye-lids lie,
And the Moon seems to smile at my vagary.