 | Poems by John B. Tabb |  |
21
THE VISION OF THE TARN.
Alone, in contemplation lost,
I stood upon a castled height,
Dark beetling o'er a lurid tarn
That glassed the brow of night.
I stood upon a castled height,
Dark beetling o'er a lurid tarn
That glassed the brow of night.
Between the icy flash of stars,
Above me sprinkled and beneath,
The silence of the listening air
Was counterfeit of death.
Above me sprinkled and beneath,
The silence of the listening air
Was counterfeit of death.
No cloud upon the naked sky,
No ripple on the lake below;
But o'er the sluggish waters hung
A phosphorescent glow,
No ripple on the lake below;
But o'er the sluggish waters hung
A phosphorescent glow,
That suddenly, all quivering wan,
As smitten with the throes of birth,
Upheaving, vanished, to reveal
A phantom not of earth—
As smitten with the throes of birth,
Upheaving, vanished, to reveal
A phantom not of earth—
A lily wonderful as light,
Unfolded on the balmy deep,
And, cradled in its bosom, lay
A presence lost in sleep.
Unfolded on the balmy deep,
And, cradled in its bosom, lay
A presence lost in sleep.
22
And tenderly a star remote
Shed holy lustre o'er the place,
Where innocence and peace betrayed
Such unimagined grace
Shed holy lustre o'er the place,
Where innocence and peace betrayed
Such unimagined grace
That e'en the calm celestial orb,
Enamoured of the dream below,
With tremulous emotion pale
Diffused a milder glow.
Enamoured of the dream below,
With tremulous emotion pale
Diffused a milder glow.
And I beheld, in mystery,
The secret of my vision fair—
That of a relic sprung the flower
That bore its image there.
The secret of my vision fair—
That of a relic sprung the flower
That bore its image there.
And from the watchful satellite—
The dwelling of a spirit fled—
That faithful sentinel of love
Its vacant shrine surveyed,
The dwelling of a spirit fled—
That faithful sentinel of love
Its vacant shrine surveyed,
And knew, through all transition seen,
Its place and habitation dear,
Still waiting, in the throb of hope,
Its resurrection here.
Its place and habitation dear,
Still waiting, in the throb of hope,
Its resurrection here.
Long had I gazed; but, lo! a cloud,
Down-swooping as a bird of night,
O'erwhelmed me, and the phantasy
Was blotted from my sight.
Down-swooping as a bird of night,
O'erwhelmed me, and the phantasy
Was blotted from my sight.
| Poems by John B. Tabb | |