[Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath a selection from the female poetic writers of England and America |
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 | [Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath |  |
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THE BLIND MAN'S LAY.
“At times Allan felt as if his blindness were a blessing—for it forced him to trust to his own soul—to turn for comfort to the best and purest human affections—and to see God always. Fanny could almost have wept to see the earth and the sky so beautiful, now that Allan's eyes were dark; but he whispered to her, that the smell of the budding trees and of the primroses, that he knew were near his feet, was pleasant indeed, and that the singing of all the little birds made his heart dance within him.”—
Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.
He sat beside the fountain, on whose brink
A troop of blue-eyed violets oped their lids
To the first breezy call of early spring—
And there, from the grey dawn till twilight's gloom,
Where the soft, springing moss, surcharged with dew,
Yielded its oozing moisture to the touch,
Telling the nightfall near,—he mused away
Long hours of silent happiness, save when
The soft and pitying words of love would call
His spell-bound spirit from its blissful thrall;
Then, in a voice of sweetest melody,
He breathed his unrepining, meek reply:
A troop of blue-eyed violets oped their lids
To the first breezy call of early spring—
And there, from the grey dawn till twilight's gloom,
Where the soft, springing moss, surcharged with dew,
Yielded its oozing moisture to the touch,
Telling the nightfall near,—he mused away
Long hours of silent happiness, save when
The soft and pitying words of love would call
His spell-bound spirit from its blissful thrall;
Then, in a voice of sweetest melody,
He breathed his unrepining, meek reply:
Though I hear thee gaily tell
Of the tulip's shaded bell,
Of the wall-flower's varied hue,
And the violet “darkly blue,”
And the crimson blush that glows
On the rich, voluptuous rose—
These no longer bloom for me,
These I never more may see.
Of the tulip's shaded bell,
Of the wall-flower's varied hue,
And the violet “darkly blue,”
And the crimson blush that glows
On the rich, voluptuous rose—
These no longer bloom for me,
These I never more may see.
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But this gentle season still
Can my heart with gladness fill—
I can hear the spring-winds blow,
And the gurgling fountains flow.
Hark! e'en now a zephyr breathes,
Through the balmy hawthorn wreaths,
Unfelt, unheard by all but me,
It swells so soft, so silently!
Can my heart with gladness fill—
I can hear the spring-winds blow,
And the gurgling fountains flow.
Hark! e'en now a zephyr breathes,
Through the balmy hawthorn wreaths,
Unfelt, unheard by all but me,
It swells so soft, so silently!
I can hear the humming-bee
Flitting o'er the sunny lea,
Wooing every bashful flower,
From morn till evening's dewy hour.
All around the voice of birds,
And the lisped and laughing words
Of merry childhood, greet my ear,
With power the saddest heart to cheer.
Flitting o'er the sunny lea,
Wooing every bashful flower,
From morn till evening's dewy hour.
All around the voice of birds,
And the lisped and laughing words
Of merry childhood, greet my ear,
With power the saddest heart to cheer.
When o'er earth night's shadow lies,
I hear thee tell of cloudless skies,
And countless stars that twinkle through
Heaven's broad and boundless arch of blue;
Of snow white spires and turrets fair
Soft gleaming in the moonlit air,
Whose dusky depths of shadow lie
Heightening the brilliant scenery.
I hear thee tell of cloudless skies,
And countless stars that twinkle through
Heaven's broad and boundless arch of blue;
Of snow white spires and turrets fair
Soft gleaming in the moonlit air,
Whose dusky depths of shadow lie
Heightening the brilliant scenery.
Then beneath the pine trees tall,
Near yonder foaming waterfall,
I listen to the stock dove's wail,
Far floating through the quiet vale;
Soft sighing breezes waft to me
The fragrance of the birchen tree—
And the “brawling burnie” wimples by
With a gush of soothing melody.
Near yonder foaming waterfall,
I listen to the stock dove's wail,
Far floating through the quiet vale;
Soft sighing breezes waft to me
The fragrance of the birchen tree—
And the “brawling burnie” wimples by
With a gush of soothing melody.
E'en all sweet sense of these will fade
At times—as though impervious shade
Like that which hides me from the day,
O'er each external image lay—
Then many a form thou canst not see,
Unfolds its sun-bright wings to me,
And deep within my silent soul
High thoughts and holiest visions roll.
At times—as though impervious shade
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O'er each external image lay—
Then many a form thou canst not see,
Unfolds its sun-bright wings to me,
And deep within my silent soul
High thoughts and holiest visions roll.
Full many an angel messenger
Comes down my darksome path to cheer,
And all around my sylvan throne
There seems to wake a dreamy tone
Of solemn music through the air,
So wildly sweet—so silvery clear—
So full of heaven—no tongue can tell
The raptures that my bosom swell.
Comes down my darksome path to cheer,
And all around my sylvan throne
There seems to wake a dreamy tone
Of solemn music through the air,
So wildly sweet—so silvery clear—
So full of heaven—no tongue can tell
The raptures that my bosom swell.
Not all the joys that have their birth
In the vain pageantries of earth,
Are half so fraught with power to bless,
So rich in pensive happiness.
Wrapt in these lonely reveries,
Serene and holy transports rise,
Such as we deem pure spirits know,
Such as from God's felt presence flow.
In the vain pageantries of earth,
Are half so fraught with power to bless,
So rich in pensive happiness.
Wrapt in these lonely reveries,
Serene and holy transports rise,
Such as we deem pure spirits know,
Such as from God's felt presence flow.
Thus, when affliction's friendly screen
Shuts out life's vain illusive scene—
When thus she seals our weary eyes
To all its glittering vanities,
A gleam of heavenly light will pour
Our dark despairing spirits o'er,
And Faith, with meek and steadfast eye,
Far glancing through eternity,
Shuts out life's vain illusive scene—
When thus she seals our weary eyes
To all its glittering vanities,
A gleam of heavenly light will pour
Our dark despairing spirits o'er,
And Faith, with meek and steadfast eye,
Far glancing through eternity,
Sees where the heavenly mansions rise,
Of her bright home beyond the skies,
Whose golden fanes sublimely tower
High o'er the clouds that round us lower.
Then welcome sorrow's shrouding shade:
Fade! scenes of earthly splendor, fade!
And leave me to that dawning ray
That brightens till the “perfect day.”
Of her bright home beyond the skies,
Whose golden fanes sublimely tower
High o'er the clouds that round us lower.
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Fade! scenes of earthly splendor, fade!
And leave me to that dawning ray
That brightens till the “perfect day.”
RETROSPECTION.
My heart is in my childhood's home,
And by the far-off sunny braes,
Where, musing, once I loved to roam,
In early youth's romantic days.
And by the far-off sunny braes,
Where, musing, once I loved to roam,
In early youth's romantic days.
The past—the past—the dreamy past,
Called up by memory's magic wand,
Gleams through the halo round it cast,
Bright as e'en hope's own phantom land.
Called up by memory's magic wand,
Gleams through the halo round it cast,
Bright as e'en hope's own phantom land.
Oh never more in after life
Can hope itself such dreams impart
As then, with breathing beauty rife,
Wreathed their soft spells around my heart.
Can hope itself such dreams impart
As then, with breathing beauty rife,
Wreathed their soft spells around my heart.
The skies were brighter then, than now,
More bland the wandering breezes blew,
The birds sang sweeter on the bough,
The wild flowers wore a richer hue.
More bland the wandering breezes blew,
The birds sang sweeter on the bough,
The wild flowers wore a richer hue.
Ideal forms of classic lore,
By moss-grown grot and crystal well,
Seemed still to linger as of yore,
And fairies danced in every dell.
By moss-grown grot and crystal well,
Seemed still to linger as of yore,
And fairies danced in every dell.
Blither than Elf-land's fabled queen,
I loved the green and laughing earth;
While wooded cliff and wild ravine,
Were echoing to my bosom's mirth.
I loved the green and laughing earth;
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Were echoing to my bosom's mirth.
For care had never dimm'd my brow,
Nor friends proved heartless and untrue;
I ne'er had wept love's broken vow,
Nor aught of life's dark changes knew.
Nor friends proved heartless and untrue;
I ne'er had wept love's broken vow,
Nor aught of life's dark changes knew.
Farewell, sweet scenes of past delight!
Slowly ye sink from memory's gaze,
Still beaming with reflected light,
As bathed in twilight's parting rays.
Slowly ye sink from memory's gaze,
Still beaming with reflected light,
As bathed in twilight's parting rays.
I wander on my weary way,
Unmindful where my lot is cast,
Since wheresoe'er my footsteps stray,
They cannot lead me to the past.
Unmindful where my lot is cast,
Since wheresoe'er my footsteps stray,
They cannot lead me to the past.
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TO THE SPIRIT OF POETRY.
Hail! queen of high and holy thought;
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught;
Sweet memories of the days gone by;
Glimpses of immortality.
Visions of grandeur, glory, power,
All that in inspiration's hour,
Like sunset's changing glories roll
Within the poet's raptured soul!
Of dreams, with fairy beauty fraught;
Sweet memories of the days gone by;
Glimpses of immortality.
Visions of grandeur, glory, power,
All that in inspiration's hour,
Like sunset's changing glories roll
Within the poet's raptured soul!
Thy throne is in the crimson fold,
Around the setting day-star rolled—
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky,
When the bright moon is sailing high,
Touching the stars with purer light,
And lending holier charms to night:
The clouds a deeper glory wear,
The winds a softer music bear,
And earth is heaven, when thou art there.
Around the setting day-star rolled—
Thou walkest through the sapphire sky,
When the bright moon is sailing high,
Touching the stars with purer light,
And lending holier charms to night:
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The winds a softer music bear,
And earth is heaven, when thou art there.
There's not a murmur on the breeze,
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas,
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet,
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet,
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where
Soft moon-beams melt along the air;
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree,
But takes a softer grace from thee.
Nor ripple on the dark, blue seas,
Nor breath of violets, faintly sweet,
Nor glittering dewdrop at our feet,
Nor tinge of mellow radiance, where
Soft moon-beams melt along the air;
Nor shade, nor tint, on flower or tree,
But takes a softer grace from thee.
And love itself—the brightest gem
In all creation's diadem—
Oh! what were mortal love, didst thou
Not lend a glory to his brow?
Degraded, though of heavenly birth,
And sullied with the cares of earth—
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears,
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears:
But at thy spirit-stirring breath,
It burst the bonds of sin and death;
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee,
It puts on immortality.
In all creation's diadem—
Oh! what were mortal love, didst thou
Not lend a glory to his brow?
Degraded, though of heavenly birth,
And sullied with the cares of earth—
Wasted and worn, by doubts and fears,
Its youthful smiles soon change to tears:
But at thy spirit-stirring breath,
It burst the bonds of sin and death;
And, robed in heavenly charms by thee,
It puts on immortality.
| [Poems by Whitman in] The ladies' wreath | |