 | Poems |  |
56
THE ISLES OF THE BLEST.
'Mid the sparkling waves of the distant West,
Where the sun sinks down to his evening rest,
And his parting beams on the waters play,
God's visible smile from the courts of day,
O! never beheld by mortal eyes,
A cloudless and beautiful country lies—
Where the sun sinks down to his evening rest,
And his parting beams on the waters play,
God's visible smile from the courts of day,
O! never beheld by mortal eyes,
A cloudless and beautiful country lies—
That unknown land! It sometimes seems
In the marvellous faith of my mystic dreams,
That I tread its shores of gradual slope,
And drink the joy of a nameless hope,
Entranced with the magic of birds, whose lay,
Like the voices of angels far away,
Floats ever on wings of the charmèd breeze,
From the roseate heights, and the woodland leas,
And thrilled with the flash of plumes that rise
In purple sweep to the tranquil skies.
O, joy! to walk on the blossoming wolds,
While the heart of the shadowy wood unfolds,
Where the Hamadryad is wont to dwell,
And oreads bound through the bosky dell,
And the music of pipes that are low and sweet,
Steals gently after the Dreamer's feet.
In the marvellous faith of my mystic dreams,
That I tread its shores of gradual slope,
And drink the joy of a nameless hope,
Entranced with the magic of birds, whose lay,
Like the voices of angels far away,
Floats ever on wings of the charmèd breeze,
From the roseate heights, and the woodland leas,
And thrilled with the flash of plumes that rise
In purple sweep to the tranquil skies.
57
While the heart of the shadowy wood unfolds,
Where the Hamadryad is wont to dwell,
And oreads bound through the bosky dell,
And the music of pipes that are low and sweet,
Steals gently after the Dreamer's feet.
O, joy! to pause by the lake's green side,
And gaze adown in the crystal tide,
Where Naïads twine their golden hair,
In a depth of waters, calm and fair,
And the winds mysterious murmurs bear
From a viewless host in the halls of Air,
That sound as the silver rain of rills,
From the dreamy deeps of the heavenly hills.
And gaze adown in the crystal tide,
Where Naïads twine their golden hair,
In a depth of waters, calm and fair,
And the winds mysterious murmurs bear
From a viewless host in the halls of Air,
That sound as the silver rain of rills,
From the dreamy deeps of the heavenly hills.
Ever do mild-eyed Memories throng,
To that radiant realm of bloom and song,
I inhale the sweets of ungathered flowers,
The blended balm of a thousand bowers,
Loading the sighs of the languid Hours,—
And a veil of trance, serene and deep,
Enfolds my life like an Eden sleep.
When a saintly Faith hath plumed her flight
To a Mount of Visions' awful height,
I have traced, in that shadowy clime of bliss,
The forms beloved of my soul in this;
Eyes that had broken my peace in youth,
Come back with the warm, deep light of truth,
Eloquent eyes of a grand, calm ray,
For Passion and Pride have lost their sway,
Earthly feeling hath passed away,
Save the still delight of its nobler part,
The deathless love of a trustful heart.
To that radiant realm of bloom and song,
I inhale the sweets of ungathered flowers,
The blended balm of a thousand bowers,
Loading the sighs of the languid Hours,—
And a veil of trance, serene and deep,
Enfolds my life like an Eden sleep.
58
To a Mount of Visions' awful height,
I have traced, in that shadowy clime of bliss,
The forms beloved of my soul in this;
Eyes that had broken my peace in youth,
Come back with the warm, deep light of truth,
Eloquent eyes of a grand, calm ray,
For Passion and Pride have lost their sway,
Earthly feeling hath passed away,
Save the still delight of its nobler part,
The deathless love of a trustful heart.
'Tis sweet to know, when the world grows cold,
And the years of a wearisome life are told,
When the thin blood courseth chill and slow,
And the soul is o'ershadowed with heavy wo,
That the Pilgrim of earth may find a rest,
In the far-off seas of the golden West,
The beautiful Isles of the ever-blest.
And the years of a wearisome life are told,
When the thin blood courseth chill and slow,
And the soul is o'ershadowed with heavy wo,
That the Pilgrim of earth may find a rest,
In the far-off seas of the golden West,
The beautiful Isles of the ever-blest.
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