University of Virginia Library

Bright mystery of Heaven! with raptur'd awe
I gaze upon thy dreadful loveliness,
And wonder what thou art, and whence thou art,
And wherefore thou art here. Thy glorious folds
Of changeable and undulating light
Seem fasten'd at the zenith, streaming thence
In variegated hues of white, and rose,
And flamy orange, mingling with deep shades
Of crimson, and the dash of pitchy smoke,
In rich festoons diverging to the earth
And curtaining heaven's vault, east, north, and west,
Leaving the southern stars alone unveil'd,
Except where here and there, a single one
Is beaming forth, as if between the folds
Of those mysterious curtains, keeping guard;
Or smiling in the many eyes uprais'd
In wonder, awe, and terror. I would fain
Invade your mysteries, for I do not heed
The words of those who deem ye forerunners
Of fearful things to come;—of battle—flood—
Or fire—or winding sheet. Nor heed I yet
The grave conceits of speculative minds,
Which deem ye meteoric phantasies;
Or wandering flames of electricity;
Or that ye are as Symms' theory
Endeavour'd to persuade us, only rays
Of the far southern sun, reflecting through
The strange internal regions of the earth,
Upon the frozen northern atmosphere.
I do not like such prosing theories,
For I believe that ye're the lambent flames
That poets' souls are made of. There's a hue
For every grade of genius, and a shade
For every tuneful fancy. And ye seem
So undefinable—so beautiful—
So strange—so grand—so fearful—as ye move
Between the earth and heaven; mysterious lights—
Which earth-born creatures cannot comprehend.

Perchance the æriel powers
Are holding some grand festival to-night,
With mystic rites, which mortals may not see;
And they have curtain'd their high galleries
With this yet unembodied intellect,
Fearfully wrought, and gloriously festoon'd
Before the lighted concave. Lo, I see
Though dimly, through the half transparent veil
Bright moving forms parading to and fro,
In august ceremonies. It may be
The bridal of some bright and loving star,
Or possibly the spirits of the air
Are holding a masonic lodge to-night.
And though these flames possess not yet the forms
Of active intellect—still I believe
That the impressions of these mystic scenes
Remain for ever with them; flitting oft
With undefin'd and thrilling imagery
Along the darken'd mirror of the mind
Within its clay-built temple; filling it
With bright unearthly hopes, and visions bless'd
Of love, and joy, and beauty. Gushing oft
In high and wondrous harpings, fitful lays,
And wild and strange conceits, which other minds
Approach not in their dreaming.
Whence the thrill,
The indescribable, electric thrill,
That rushes through the spirit, as some tone
Of nature's melody awakes the ear;
Or when some balmy zephyr bathes the brow;
Or as the wandering eye marks some rich tint
In summer's rosy garland; when the wind
Bends the elastic grain, and blossom'd stem;
Or when the rich old forest gently waves
His dark green plumes, answering in majesty
To its impassion'd whisper? When the clouds
Heave up in glorious forms, and dazzling hues:
Or lie like sleeping beauty, softly bright;
Or sometimes when the trembling star of eve
Looks lovingly upon us? Is it not
That these things touch some half unconscious chord
That vibrates with the memories of the past,
E'er earth enshrin'd the spirit?
It must be
That in the secret treasury of the mind,
There lies a blazon'd volume of the scenes,
The trancing beauty and rich hymns of heaven;
With which the spirit was familiar once,
And which it longs for ever, wandering on
Amid the mazes of earth, sense and sin;
Catching at every shadow, which appears,
In fancy's magic mirror, like the form
Of some bright bliss, which memory's piercing eye
Sees in that hidden volume; wailing still
In bitter disappointment, as it grasps
The vain and empty shade, or sees it flit
In smiling scorn away. Just as your wreaths,
Of bright aurorean tints, ye Northern Lights,
Are fading from the Borealean gates
Of Heaven's immense cathedral.