 | [Poems by Clark in] The legendary |  |
94
MUSINGS.
TO ROSABELLE.
There is light abroad in thy pathway now,
And a stainless smile on thy virgin brow;
There are dreams that float in thy spirit's sight,
Till thy young eye swims in untold delight—
Till the wide earth seems but a paradise,
Where the purest blossoms and odors rise.
With song, and vision, and footstep free,
Fair girl! will sorrow e'er steal on thee?
And a stainless smile on thy virgin brow;
There are dreams that float in thy spirit's sight,
Till thy young eye swims in untold delight—
Till the wide earth seems but a paradise,
Where the purest blossoms and odors rise.
With song, and vision, and footstep free,
Fair girl! will sorrow e'er steal on thee?
The world is gay to thine ardent eye,
With hues of joy in its pictured sky;
With a touch, like the wakening glow of spring—
It is Pleasure's brightest imaging!
And she cheers thy path with a seraph tone,
With a voice that is melting, like music's own;
Like the halcyon's fleeting and raptured lay,
On the far, calm sea, as it dies away.
With hues of joy in its pictured sky;
With a touch, like the wakening glow of spring—
It is Pleasure's brightest imaging!
And she cheers thy path with a seraph tone,
With a voice that is melting, like music's own;
Like the halcyon's fleeting and raptured lay,
On the far, calm sea, as it dies away.
Hast thou marked the course of a fresh blue stream,
In its light and shade, like a changeful dream?
When the opening buds, on its side, would fling
Their gift to the spring-gale's viewless wing?
When the soft, low tones of the humming-bird
Stole out, like Æolian music heard?
When the glancing leaves of the forest trees,
Were whispering gladness to sun and breeze?
In its light and shade, like a changeful dream?
When the opening buds, on its side, would fling
Their gift to the spring-gale's viewless wing?
When the soft, low tones of the humming-bird
Stole out, like Æolian music heard?
When the glancing leaves of the forest trees,
Were whispering gladness to sun and breeze?
95
Were there hopes that swept o'er thy spirit then,
While the stream danced on in its quiet glen?
Were there tears of bliss in thy kindling eye,
As its glance was cast to the golden sky?
Hadst thou one thought, that the scene would fade,
That a blight would steal o'er the summer glade,
That the cloud would frown in that festal heaven,
Or the tree's sere honors to dust be given?
While the stream danced on in its quiet glen?
Were there tears of bliss in thy kindling eye,
As its glance was cast to the golden sky?
Hadst thou one thought, that the scene would fade,
That a blight would steal o'er the summer glade,
That the cloud would frown in that festal heaven,
Or the tree's sere honors to dust be given?
Bright one! I would that the world might be
All joy and sunlight outspread for thee!
That thine early visions might yet remain,
When thy step has passed from youth's gay domain!
But thy dreams will flee like a wild bird's tone—
Like the aspen's whisper, thou lovely one!
Thy hopes will fade in the viewless air,
And the wreath lie dead in thy golden hair!
All joy and sunlight outspread for thee!
That thine early visions might yet remain,
When thy step has passed from youth's gay domain!
But thy dreams will flee like a wild bird's tone—
Like the aspen's whisper, thou lovely one!
Thy hopes will fade in the viewless air,
And the wreath lie dead in thy golden hair!
There is yet a brighter and purer ray,
Which will pour its glow on thy flowery way;
It will light thine eye as it flits along,
Wake thy soul to love and thy lip to song;
And the untold bliss of its visitings,
Will thrill to thy young heart's holy strings—
But 't will fleet like the rich cloud isles that glide
Through the summer-heaven at evening tide.
Which will pour its glow on thy flowery way;
It will light thine eye as it flits along,
Wake thy soul to love and thy lip to song;
And the untold bliss of its visitings,
Will thrill to thy young heart's holy strings—
But 't will fleet like the rich cloud isles that glide
Through the summer-heaven at evening tide.
Thou wilt breathe Love's sigh but a little while,
Thou wilt bask but a moment in Pleasure's smile!
Above thee will darken the clouds of fate,
And thy innocent heart will be desolate!
Thou wilt look with a mournful feeling, back
On the withered buds in thy childhood's track—
On the wasted hours of thine early glee—
Pure girl! I am sad as I gaze on thee!
Thou wilt bask but a moment in Pleasure's smile!
Above thee will darken the clouds of fate,
And thy innocent heart will be desolate!
Thou wilt look with a mournful feeling, back
On the withered buds in thy childhood's track—
On the wasted hours of thine early glee—
Pure girl! I am sad as I gaze on thee!
96
But there yet is peace! Thou may'st glean it still
From the crystal lake—from the prattling rill—
From the summer's glow, or the spring's clear glance,
Or autumn's faded inheritance.
Though Hope no dream to thy soul may bring,
Though Joy may sleep on its folded wing,
It will teach thee to bow to the chastener's rod,
While it lifts thy affections up to God!
From the crystal lake—from the prattling rill—
From the summer's glow, or the spring's clear glance,
Or autumn's faded inheritance.
Though Hope no dream to thy soul may bring,
Though Joy may sleep on its folded wing,
It will teach thee to bow to the chastener's rod,
While it lifts thy affections up to God!
272
STANZAS
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.
Olli dura quies oculos, et ferreus urguet
Somnus; in æternam clauduntur lumina noctem.
Virg. Æneid. Lib. X.
Somnus; in æternam clauduntur lumina noctem.
Virg. Æneid. Lib. X.
Peace to the slumberer!—On his wasting breast,
The dull, cold earth in mournful stillness lies;—
Gathered in dust, to take his last, deep rest,
With dreamless silence on his shadowed eyes!
Lost, as a song, in spring's rejoicing hour,
Whose cadence sweetens the blue atmosphere;—
Bud of a heavenly tree—immortal flower
Won from Life's desert;—why should it be here?
The dull, cold earth in mournful stillness lies;—
Gathered in dust, to take his last, deep rest,
With dreamless silence on his shadowed eyes!
Lost, as a song, in spring's rejoicing hour,
Whose cadence sweetens the blue atmosphere;—
Bud of a heavenly tree—immortal flower
Won from Life's desert;—why should it be here?
His thoughts were holy; and like founts that bring
Music and freshness in their quiet strain—
Thus his rapt Fancy plumed her radiant wing,
And gathered bliss from Nature's wide domain!
Then flowed his numbers—as the pure buds shed
Delicious odor through the summer glen.
Calm was their influence—in bright pictures spread,
Cheering the heart, and winning praise of men.
Music and freshness in their quiet strain—
Thus his rapt Fancy plumed her radiant wing,
And gathered bliss from Nature's wide domain!
Then flowed his numbers—as the pure buds shed
Delicious odor through the summer glen.
Calm was their influence—in bright pictures spread,
Cheering the heart, and winning praise of men.
Peace to the sleeper!—o'er his silent lyre
The autumnal gale at evening-tide goes by;—
Where rests the hand that swept its strings of fire,
And with its murmurs roused the smile or sigh?
Ask of the fresh earth on his gloomy pall,
Where are the raptures of his bosom now?
What reck the leaves of honor's coronal?
Ask the wind's requiem in the cypress bough!
The autumnal gale at evening-tide goes by;—
Where rests the hand that swept its strings of fire,
And with its murmurs roused the smile or sigh?
Ask of the fresh earth on his gloomy pall,
Where are the raptures of his bosom now?
What reck the leaves of honor's coronal?
Ask the wind's requiem in the cypress bough!
273
Let the sad mourner, as his glance is cast
In sorrow's mute, imploring gaze, to Heaven,
Weep not, that Genius to a rest hath passed—
That to the weary, a repose is given!
Why should the fount pour out its richness here,
In the dim vista of this vale of tears;
Or grief look back upon joy's brief career,
Through the chill labyrinth of life's faded years?
In sorrow's mute, imploring gaze, to Heaven,
Weep not, that Genius to a rest hath passed—
That to the weary, a repose is given!
Why should the fount pour out its richness here,
In the dim vista of this vale of tears;
Or grief look back upon joy's brief career,
Through the chill labyrinth of life's faded years?
The spring hath found him in its morning hour,
Musing in rapture by the upland side;
Gleaning sweet feelings from the early flower,
Or drinking pleasure by the blue stream's tide;—
Young leaves, the gladness of the sapphire sky,
Where the pure clouds unfold the quiet wing—
How woke they in his soul calm poetry,
Enthusiast thought, and rich imagining!
Musing in rapture by the upland side;
Gleaning sweet feelings from the early flower,
Or drinking pleasure by the blue stream's tide;—
Young leaves, the gladness of the sapphire sky,
Where the pure clouds unfold the quiet wing—
How woke they in his soul calm poetry,
Enthusiast thought, and rich imagining!
Summer, the tempter!—oft her scenes have won
His willing footstep from the hearth away,
To mark the splendors of her golden sun,
To list the wild-bird's halcyon roundelay!
And when sad autumn tinged the hill and vale,
And dark clouds palled the melancholy west,
What pensive pictures lingered in his tale
Of the dead season, as it sunk to rest?
His willing footstep from the hearth away,
To mark the splendors of her golden sun,
To list the wild-bird's halcyon roundelay!
And when sad autumn tinged the hill and vale,
And dark clouds palled the melancholy west,
What pensive pictures lingered in his tale
Of the dead season, as it sunk to rest?
Dust hath caressed him!—and his languid eye
Is folded deeply in the voiceless tomb;
What though blithe tones may fill the azure sky,
And garnished Nature laugh in early bloom?
The stream will murmur by its flowery shore,
From the blue mountain Spring's sweet voice will come—
Wake they the slumberer, whose dream is o'er—
The wearied pilgrim, who hath found his home?
Is folded deeply in the voiceless tomb;
What though blithe tones may fill the azure sky,
And garnished Nature laugh in early bloom?
The stream will murmur by its flowery shore,
From the blue mountain Spring's sweet voice will come—
Wake they the slumberer, whose dream is o'er—
The wearied pilgrim, who hath found his home?
274
Summer, with songs, will come; the breezy hill
To the gay carol of her birds will ring;
There will be sunlight poured on fount and rill,
And countless blossoms from the dust will spring;
The lake's clear wave will glance, the gale will sweep
Æolian murmurs in its wandering free;
A glow of joy will bathe the land—the deep—
But to the poet, what will these things be?
To the gay carol of her birds will ring;
There will be sunlight poured on fount and rill,
And countless blossoms from the dust will spring;
The lake's clear wave will glance, the gale will sweep
Æolian murmurs in its wandering free;
A glow of joy will bathe the land—the deep—
But to the poet, what will these things be?
His dream hath vanished;—in life's changeful hour
His lyre was breathing as he passed along,
To Love, to Nature, with her hallowed power
And faded leaves, earth's solitudes among!
Will Love's tone rouse him to renew his lay;
Or summer cloud, or blue depth of the sky?
Will Nature's voice dissolve the spell away,
Or kindle fire within that deep sealed eye?
His lyre was breathing as he passed along,
To Love, to Nature, with her hallowed power
And faded leaves, earth's solitudes among!
Will Love's tone rouse him to renew his lay;
Or summer cloud, or blue depth of the sky?
Will Nature's voice dissolve the spell away,
Or kindle fire within that deep sealed eye?
Look o'er the desolate earth!—the plaintive gale
Hurls the red leaf upon the fountain's breast;—
Tones from the forest tell of roses pale—
Of yellow buds, returning unto rest!
Yet will the flowers again arise from dust,
And brightening skies o'er the green earth be given;—
Then let the soul resign, with humble trust,
The Friend, the Bard, in hope, to God and Heaven!
Hurls the red leaf upon the fountain's breast;—
Tones from the forest tell of roses pale—
Of yellow buds, returning unto rest!
Yet will the flowers again arise from dust,
And brightening skies o'er the green earth be given;—
Then let the soul resign, with humble trust,
The Friend, the Bard, in hope, to God and Heaven!
| [Poems by Clark in] The legendary | |