 | The heir of the world, and lesser poems |  |
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THE ANCIENT PALMER.
Among the people of the caravan was a venerable man, distinguished by his plaited hair, to the only remaining lock of which he had woven tresses gathered from his friends, and thus formed a turban, which he wore in memory of the absent or the dead.
D'Israeli.
Oh! is this all? hath man no worthier hold
On the deep feelings of his kindred race,
That memory lingers in a turban's fold,
And Age reveres young pleasure's faintest trace?
Must the warm heart forget its early fires,
Save from the urn it catch awakening light?
—Alas! time blots what soaring Hope inspires,
And Sorrow veils Love's radiant heaven in night!
On the deep feelings of his kindred race,
That memory lingers in a turban's fold,
And Age reveres young pleasure's faintest trace?
Must the warm heart forget its early fires,
Save from the urn it catch awakening light?
—Alas! time blots what soaring Hope inspires,
And Sorrow veils Love's radiant heaven in night!
Not long the soul retains its holiest rays,
Caught from the shrine where seraph spirits breathe;
Transient and dark are all our mortal days,—
E'en at our birth we feel almighty death!
Yet, like a dream as human being is,
Oblivion shadows memory's fading eye,
And those, who were our nature's purest bliss,
Are all forgotten 'neath the unchanging sky.
Caught from the shrine where seraph spirits breathe;
Transient and dark are all our mortal days,—
E'en at our birth we feel almighty death!
Yet, like a dream as human being is,
Oblivion shadows memory's fading eye,
And those, who were our nature's purest bliss,
Are all forgotten 'neath the unchanging sky.
The sun of genius sinks in endless gloom,
The bloom of beauty and the pomp of power;
E'en virtue sleeps forgotten in the tomb—
None can avert the unacquainted hour!
Howe'er thy spirit, lonely Son of Song!
Burn with ethereal fire and light the sky,
Thy thoughts will perish in the dust erelong,
Or glimmer but to show the blind worm's revelry.
The bloom of beauty and the pomp of power;
E'en virtue sleeps forgotten in the tomb—
None can avert the unacquainted hour!
Howe'er thy spirit, lonely Son of Song!
Burn with ethereal fire and light the sky,
Thy thoughts will perish in the dust erelong,
Or glimmer but to show the blind worm's revelry.
207
Yet, oh! 'tis sweet, however done, to wake
Long buried feelings into life again,
And from the altar of the heart to take
The living fire that hallows human pain,
And, by its light, through being's midnight maze,
With solemn mind, to search out all the past,
And grieve o'er sin and error's guileful ways,
And dew with tears affliction's burning waste!
Long buried feelings into life again,
And from the altar of the heart to take
The living fire that hallows human pain,
And, by its light, through being's midnight maze,
With solemn mind, to search out all the past,
And grieve o'er sin and error's guileful ways,
And dew with tears affliction's burning waste!
The poorest relic of the lost becomes
Holy unto the heart bereav'd of all;
It brings each image from the vale of tombs,
Or wakens life beneath the deep dark pall;
For whate'er love in sorrow hallows, time,
With all its glories, could not charm away;
Gifts from the dead excite to hopes sublime—
The noontide glory of Hope's long bright day!
Holy unto the heart bereav'd of all;
It brings each image from the vale of tombs,
Or wakens life beneath the deep dark pall;
For whate'er love in sorrow hallows, time,
With all its glories, could not charm away;
Gifts from the dead excite to hopes sublime—
The noontide glory of Hope's long bright day!
E'en that cold shadowy tyrant of the tomb
With hollow eye beholds the heart of man,
And a voice utters through sepulchral gloom,
“Pause in thy peril! and beware the ban!
“Oh! think how soon all earthly things will close!
“How frail the strongest of all human ties!
“How full of care this world, and thousand woes!
“How short, how sure the passage to the skies!”
With hollow eye beholds the heart of man,
And a voice utters through sepulchral gloom,
“Pause in thy peril! and beware the ban!
“Oh! think how soon all earthly things will close!
“How frail the strongest of all human ties!
“How full of care this world, and thousand woes!
“How short, how sure the passage to the skies!”
Well, Ancient Palmer! didst thou seek to save
The untimely buds that bloom in memory's bowers
From the dark mildew of the wintry grave,
And spread soft sunshine o'er the unfolding flowers!
Though lone and full of grief, thou didst not shun
The full revealment of man's erring mind,—
Thine eye look'd down like autumn's solemn sun—
Thy voice was heard, like harpings of the wind!
The untimely buds that bloom in memory's bowers
From the dark mildew of the wintry grave,
And spread soft sunshine o'er the unfolding flowers!
Though lone and full of grief, thou didst not shun
The full revealment of man's erring mind,—
Thine eye look'd down like autumn's solemn sun—
Thy voice was heard, like harpings of the wind!
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Round thee, time honoured Ruin! many a vine
In all its freshness and its beauty clung,
And in the breeze full many a lengthening line
Of young plants wav'd, on thy green purlieus hung.
Thou stood'st in rugged grandeur there alone,
Midway between the present and the past,
And told of deeds and characters unknown
To all the world—thou Mansion of the Blast!
In all its freshness and its beauty clung,
And in the breeze full many a lengthening line
Of young plants wav'd, on thy green purlieus hung.
Thou stood'st in rugged grandeur there alone,
Midway between the present and the past,
And told of deeds and characters unknown
To all the world—thou Mansion of the Blast!
In all thy wanderings thou didst bear along,
O Ancient Palmer! folded round thy brow,
Names never nam'd in oral tale or song,
Save when from thee their varied histories flow!
Thou, hoary chronicler! canst tell a tale
Of each particular lock that crowns thy head,
Why one did prosper and another fail—
Who dwells on earth—who slumbers with the dead.
O Ancient Palmer! folded round thy brow,
Names never nam'd in oral tale or song,
Save when from thee their varied histories flow!
Thou, hoary chronicler! canst tell a tale
Of each particular lock that crowns thy head,
Why one did prosper and another fail—
Who dwells on earth—who slumbers with the dead.
And oft, amid the long, long desert plain
Of solitary Barca thou hast stood,
When midnight frown'd in lone meridian reign
O'er nature's dim and awful solitude,
And figures wild, and shapes grotesque of Turk,
Arab, Greek, Persian flitted round the fire,
Like elves and fairies—wizzard's magic work,
Or thy creations—Genius of the Lyre!
Of solitary Barca thou hast stood,
When midnight frown'd in lone meridian reign
O'er nature's dim and awful solitude,
And figures wild, and shapes grotesque of Turk,
Arab, Greek, Persian flitted round the fire,
Like elves and fairies—wizzard's magic work,
Or thy creations—Genius of the Lyre!
There thou hast stood in that romantic light,
Like some old prophet in the Delphian wood,
And told thy magic tales, while eyes gleam'd bright
Around thee, like thick star-beams on the flood,
While from thy inmost heart in torrents gush'd
The deep pent stream of long collected thought.—
Electric silence on wan brows sat hush'd,
And rapture quiver'd o'er what terror wrought.
Like some old prophet in the Delphian wood,
And told thy magic tales, while eyes gleam'd bright
Around thee, like thick star-beams on the flood,
While from thy inmost heart in torrents gush'd
The deep pent stream of long collected thought.—
Electric silence on wan brows sat hush'd,
And rapture quiver'd o'er what terror wrought.
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The maniac lover, reverenc'd as a god,
The warrior, slain in battle's lightning shock,
The poet, raised to Indra's bright abode,
And the meek shepherd of the wandering flock—
—All from thy lips receiv'd appointed praise,
As thou unfoldest memory's scroll to view,
And spake the story of their mortal days
In words that glow'd like morning's rosy dew.
The warrior, slain in battle's lightning shock,
The poet, raised to Indra's bright abode,
And the meek shepherd of the wandering flock—
—All from thy lips receiv'd appointed praise,
As thou unfoldest memory's scroll to view,
And spake the story of their mortal days
In words that glow'd like morning's rosy dew.
—Thou wentest on thy way, rever'd and lov'd,
O Ancient Palmer! and thy wealth was great,—
For thou hadst minds for gems, refin'd and prov'd,
And lore, worth worlds of gold, of time and fate.
—Like thee, may I within my spirit shrine
Whate'er of virtue I may meet below,
That I, in age, may feel my heart, like thine,
Rich with the treasures love and truth bestow!
O Ancient Palmer! and thy wealth was great,—
For thou hadst minds for gems, refin'd and prov'd,
And lore, worth worlds of gold, of time and fate.
—Like thee, may I within my spirit shrine
Whate'er of virtue I may meet below,
That I, in age, may feel my heart, like thine,
Rich with the treasures love and truth bestow!
| The heir of the world, and lesser poems | |