 | Mina, a dramatic sketch : with Other Poems |  |
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THE SON OF GENIUS.
'T was summer evening and the fair blue sky
In rosy beauty hung o'er land and sea,
And to the poet's visionary eye
Burned with light gushing from eternity;
The soft, sweet airs of heaven breathed o'er his brow
As he gazed on the lovely scene below
His solitary chamber—rich and bright,
And watched the mellowing shadows as they fell
O'er flowery vales and green isles robed in light,
Till darkness dimmed the scenes he loved so well.
In rosy beauty hung o'er land and sea,
And to the poet's visionary eye
Burned with light gushing from eternity;
The soft, sweet airs of heaven breathed o'er his brow
As he gazed on the lovely scene below
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And watched the mellowing shadows as they fell
O'er flowery vales and green isles robed in light,
Till darkness dimmed the scenes he loved so well.
But vainly beauty smiles when the heart bleeds
In silent, untold agony of wo;
Nought of fair forms the withering spirit heeds—
All sight and sound is mockery; grief doth grow
Deeper and wilder amid joy and mirth,
And sorrow veils this bright and lovely earth
In darkness and in dreariness—and all
Seems cold and hollow in the ways of men;
And the dark spirit wears a living pall
Of deathless death—it cannot smile again.
In silent, untold agony of wo;
Nought of fair forms the withering spirit heeds—
All sight and sound is mockery; grief doth grow
Deeper and wilder amid joy and mirth,
And sorrow veils this bright and lovely earth
In darkness and in dreariness—and all
Seems cold and hollow in the ways of men;
And the dark spirit wears a living pall
Of deathless death—it cannot smile again.
Oh! who can tell how hard it is to wear
A mirthful look that hides a broken heart?
How deep and desolate is that despair,
Which sickly smiles of forced delight impart?
'Tis awful misery to seem in joy;
Smiles on the lip—tears in the wandering eye;
Hope on the brow—despair within the soul!
Oh, why to man are all earth's sorrows given—
The thousand woes that mock at man's control,
But from earth's griefs to turn his thoughts to heaven?
A mirthful look that hides a broken heart?
How deep and desolate is that despair,
Which sickly smiles of forced delight impart?
'Tis awful misery to seem in joy;
Smiles on the lip—tears in the wandering eye;
Hope on the brow—despair within the soul!
Oh, why to man are all earth's sorrows given—
The thousand woes that mock at man's control,
But from earth's griefs to turn his thoughts to heaven?
The bright creations of his soaring thought
Had from the young bard passed away, and now
He wept o'er all his mighty mind had wrought;
And his heart's darkness gloom'd along his brow,
And fearful forms appeared and bade him look
Upon their ghastly horrors—and he took
The terrors of their wild and withering eyes
E'en to his bosom's core, and o'er him came
That hollowness of sufferance which tries
The spirit more than rack or bickering flame.
Had from the young bard passed away, and now
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And his heart's darkness gloom'd along his brow,
And fearful forms appeared and bade him look
Upon their ghastly horrors—and he took
The terrors of their wild and withering eyes
E'en to his bosom's core, and o'er him came
That hollowness of sufferance which tries
The spirit more than rack or bickering flame.
He saw not—heard not—thought not of the crowd
That passed him joyously on either hand;
His spirit writhed within a shuddering shroud,
And o'er him Genius waved his magic wand.
(Genius! bright child of heaven—a god of earth!
Despair and Death for ever give thee birth;
Thou angel heir whose heritage is pain!
Whose rapture, anguish and all countless woes;
Whose only joy is sorrow's mournful strain—
Whose only hope this being's early close!)
That passed him joyously on either hand;
His spirit writhed within a shuddering shroud,
And o'er him Genius waved his magic wand.
(Genius! bright child of heaven—a god of earth!
Despair and Death for ever give thee birth;
Thou angel heir whose heritage is pain!
Whose rapture, anguish and all countless woes;
Whose only joy is sorrow's mournful strain—
Whose only hope this being's early close!)
Earth's charms availed not; sadness in him grew
Darker and deeper till it sunk in gloom;
Time o'er his bosom poured its deadly dew,
And Death called on him from the yawning tomb—
Stretched forth his skeleton arm and beckoned on
The suffering soul whose meteor course was done—
Rising in glory and the pride of fame,
Soaring in beauty on its starry way,
Then bursting o'er the ruin of a name—
The glorious vision of a stormy day!
Darker and deeper till it sunk in gloom;
Time o'er his bosom poured its deadly dew,
And Death called on him from the yawning tomb—
Stretched forth his skeleton arm and beckoned on
The suffering soul whose meteor course was done—
Rising in glory and the pride of fame,
Soaring in beauty on its starry way,
Then bursting o'er the ruin of a name—
The glorious vision of a stormy day!
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There was no beauty in this world to him—
No charm, no hope, no comfort, and he felt
Power from his spirit, vigour from each limb,
Life from his heart, departing; and he knelt
In lone devotion to his God and prayed
That Fate's dread arrow might not be delayed,
And yet not pierce his bosom unprepared!
“Father! thou knowest all my thoughts and deeds,
The woes I've borne alone—the woes I've shared—
And thou wilt purify the heart that bleeds.”
No charm, no hope, no comfort, and he felt
Power from his spirit, vigour from each limb,
Life from his heart, departing; and he knelt
In lone devotion to his God and prayed
That Fate's dread arrow might not be delayed,
And yet not pierce his bosom unprepared!
“Father! thou knowest all my thoughts and deeds,
The woes I've borne alone—the woes I've shared—
And thou wilt purify the heart that bleeds.”
But nothing can from human hearts expel
The fear of death—it is not weal nor wo,
That withers up the spirit, heaven nor hell;
It is that awful void—that gulf below
All reach of thought—that boundless depth of gloom
Which hangs for ever o'er the oblivious tomb;
No eye can span it and no thought unfold—
Hopes, fears and passions and all human powers
Perish before the mystery untold,
Searching in vain for Eden's holy bowers.
The fear of death—it is not weal nor wo,
That withers up the spirit, heaven nor hell;
It is that awful void—that gulf below
All reach of thought—that boundless depth of gloom
Which hangs for ever o'er the oblivious tomb;
No eye can span it and no thought unfold—
Hopes, fears and passions and all human powers
Perish before the mystery untold,
Searching in vain for Eden's holy bowers.
And death to him had terrors—oh, it had
Terrors for thee, almighty Son of God!
Oft callous, fears are felt not by the bad
At the dread voice that summons to the sod;
The doubtfulness of good that virtue feels
Oft o'er the heart in withering anguish steals,
And clouds the closing hour of sinless life
With fears that hardened guilt denies; for, oh,
Goodness doth question its own worth, though rife
With all that hallows earth's intensest wo.
Terrors for thee, almighty Son of God!
Oft callous, fears are felt not by the bad
At the dread voice that summons to the sod;
The doubtfulness of good that virtue feels
Oft o'er the heart in withering anguish steals,
And clouds the closing hour of sinless life
With fears that hardened guilt denies; for, oh,
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With all that hallows earth's intensest wo.
The mournful bard—life's best affections gone,
Its kindly charities and hopes of fame,
Mused darkly on the ways of fate alone—
Continual sorrows and a blasted name,
Till in the pale light of his bosom's shrine
Appeared a form majestic and divine;
Mysterious greatness gleamed along his brow—
His air breathed awe—his voice was like the sea's;
His eye illumed all nature in its glow—
And thus he spake the spirit's mysteries:—
Its kindly charities and hopes of fame,
Mused darkly on the ways of fate alone—
Continual sorrows and a blasted name,
Till in the pale light of his bosom's shrine
Appeared a form majestic and divine;
Mysterious greatness gleamed along his brow—
His air breathed awe—his voice was like the sea's;
His eye illumed all nature in its glow—
And thus he spake the spirit's mysteries:—
“Son of the Skies! thou, who dost oft commune
With the ethereal stars when sleep locks up
Life's founts of bitterness in night's still noon;
Thou wilt not always drink this poison cup
Of wretchedness allotted thee below;
Thou wilt not always wear upon thy brow
The visible torture of thy bleeding heart;
Thy sunken cheek and hollow eye will yet
Smile ere thy spirit from the world depart,
And coming hours shall teach thee to forget.
With the ethereal stars when sleep locks up
Life's founts of bitterness in night's still noon;
Thou wilt not always drink this poison cup
Of wretchedness allotted thee below;
Thou wilt not always wear upon thy brow
The visible torture of thy bleeding heart;
Thy sunken cheek and hollow eye will yet
Smile ere thy spirit from the world depart,
And coming hours shall teach thee to forget.
“Thy toil hath been for greatness and for fame,
And thou hast panted in the poisoned air
Of hate and envy to achieve a name
For the fool's mockery; and thought and care,
And vigilant observance and much pain,
And watchings long thou could'st not bear again,
Have been rewarded by a damning curse—
The spleen of bastard wit and envy's gall;
And low, base foes, whom fiends could make no worse,
Have shouted o'er the ruins of thy fall.
And thou hast panted in the poisoned air
Of hate and envy to achieve a name
For the fool's mockery; and thought and care,
And vigilant observance and much pain,
And watchings long thou could'st not bear again,
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The spleen of bastard wit and envy's gall;
And low, base foes, whom fiends could make no worse,
Have shouted o'er the ruins of thy fall.
“One look of thine could blast them into death,
But, mid the locust plague, thine eye would tire
Of slaying, and the poison of their breath
Taint and obscure thy spirit's holy fire.
Pass o'er them—stoop not to their scope—'t is vain
To battle with the fitchew; canst thou reign
And banquet on thy proud and just applause
Without the envenomed chalice, that will bear
Death to thy vitals? In a lofty cause
The world will crown thee with thy heart's despair.
But, mid the locust plague, thine eye would tire
Of slaying, and the poison of their breath
Taint and obscure thy spirit's holy fire.
Pass o'er them—stoop not to their scope—'t is vain
To battle with the fitchew; canst thou reign
And banquet on thy proud and just applause
Without the envenomed chalice, that will bear
Death to thy vitals? In a lofty cause
The world will crown thee with thy heart's despair.
“But should'st thou bask in glory's fairest light,
Canst thou make league with death to sound thy praise?
Or hope to hear amid sepulchral night
The voice of fame that charmed thy mortal days?
Can mouldering dust resume its form again,
Or thy soul hover o'er this realm of pain
To drink the incense of a crowd, whose breath,
Ere an hour wings its unreturning flight,
May fan the cold, unearthly brow of death,
And all their memories sink to endless night?
Canst thou make league with death to sound thy praise?
Or hope to hear amid sepulchral night
The voice of fame that charmed thy mortal days?
Can mouldering dust resume its form again,
Or thy soul hover o'er this realm of pain
To drink the incense of a crowd, whose breath,
Ere an hour wings its unreturning flight,
May fan the cold, unearthly brow of death,
And all their memories sink to endless night?
“No! glory unbeheld is grief and shame—
The spirit's power is wasted upon dust;
Virtue and goodness never lead to fame,
Nor breathing pictures of the wise and just.
Fiends love not what they cannot falsify,
And there are fiends who never dwelt on high.
Let Genius dip his pencil in the gloom,
That o'er man's heart comes from the depths of hell—
Ages will weep above his laurelled tomb,
And immortality his triumphs swell.
The spirit's power is wasted upon dust;
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Nor breathing pictures of the wise and just.
Fiends love not what they cannot falsify,
And there are fiends who never dwelt on high.
Let Genius dip his pencil in the gloom,
That o'er man's heart comes from the depths of hell—
Ages will weep above his laurelled tomb,
And immortality his triumphs swell.
“Yet thou must soar; immortal spirits wear
Robes coloured in the skies—they cannot rest
Mid earth's cold multitudes; the holy air
Near heaven they breathe, and are supremely blest
When, the false world and all its woes forgot,
They feel their own divinity; thy lot,
Lowly with men, is holy and sublime
With angels and winged glories at the hour
Of inspiration, when thy soul can climb
Heaven's gate and hail each spirit in his bower.
Robes coloured in the skies—they cannot rest
Mid earth's cold multitudes; the holy air
Near heaven they breathe, and are supremely blest
When, the false world and all its woes forgot,
They feel their own divinity; thy lot,
Lowly with men, is holy and sublime
With angels and winged glories at the hour
Of inspiration, when thy soul can climb
Heaven's gate and hail each spirit in his bower.
“Less for the world's applause, more for thy own,
Howe'er, in humble consciousness of all
The gifts of God, toil thou till crowns are won
Of virtue and of glory; see thou fall
Not from the principles of goodness given
To all earth's sons by kind, indulgent heaven!
Despair not of thy meed! though dark the hour
Of disappointment, put the armour on
Of faith and perseverance, and thy power
Will strengthen still when centuries have gone.”
Howe'er, in humble consciousness of all
The gifts of God, toil thou till crowns are won
Of virtue and of glory; see thou fall
Not from the principles of goodness given
To all earth's sons by kind, indulgent heaven!
Despair not of thy meed! though dark the hour
Of disappointment, put the armour on
Of faith and perseverance, and thy power
Will strengthen still when centuries have gone.”
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Ceased the deep voice—the ideal phantom fled;
But left that comfort which reflection gives
To virtue in affliction;—well 't were said,
He lives to glory who to goodness lives.
O'er the young bard new freshened feelings rise,
And thoughts of beauty beaming from the skies,
And gay hope, like a sunbow, round his heart
Glitters and colours every feeling there,
And as his dark and dreary thoughts depart,
He feels,—while heaven awaits, let none despair!
But left that comfort which reflection gives
To virtue in affliction;—well 't were said,
He lives to glory who to goodness lives.
O'er the young bard new freshened feelings rise,
And thoughts of beauty beaming from the skies,
And gay hope, like a sunbow, round his heart
Glitters and colours every feeling there,
And as his dark and dreary thoughts depart,
He feels,—while heaven awaits, let none despair!
| Mina, a dramatic sketch : with Other Poems | |