 | ["Daughter of Coelus! as of old", in] Boston prize poems |  |
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[Daughter of Cœlus! as of old]
I.
1.
Daughter of Cœlus! as of oldThe lute of Memnon, to the morning strung,
Sweetly Hyperion's welcome sung,
His sapphire crown and glittering car of gold,—
The breathing shell salutes thine ear;
O, from thy arching house appear!
Thou, that in ancient day didst give to earth
Beauty in the Muse's birth,
For whose embrace the doting god, in love,
Forsook his starry courts above,
And sought thy silvan bower, and wooed
A love so pure as thine in some more gentle mood.
2.
And thou, the master of each song,Whose voice was musick and the breath of love,
Solemn Enchanter! that above
On Fancy's seraph pinion sailed along,
And rode the stormy cloud on high,
Whilst rapture lit thy searching eye;
Sweetly to thee shall joy's ecstatic throng
Wake the wildly-pleasing song,
And touch the golden lute, whilst round
The lyre of more majestic sound
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Till listening Echo speaks from her enchanted cell.
3.
Silver Avon! as the dirgeOf evening, by thy twilight verge,
Wandering winds sung faint and far,
And Titan plunged his burning car
Deep in the western surge,
There he, to Nature's worship kneeling,
In devotion's purest feeling,
Touched the love-enticing viol,
Whilst the listening goddess smiled,
And, to more ambitious trial,
Every tone his hand beguiled!
And we can trace that Genius in its flight,
Like the fierce eagle, with an eye of fire
And untamed pinion, to a dizzy height
And brightness more intense, till we admire
The dauntless spirit and the undazzled eye,
That scanned the azure deep of the abyss on high.
II.
1.
Mighty Magician! round thy throne,When thou didst wave thy golden wand, how came
The Passions, soothed to gentler frame!
Hope, with her amber hair and azure zone,
Suspicious Fear, and haggard Care,
Revenge, and silent, sad Despair!—
Young Love came smiling through his tears, and Joy
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Though lynx-eyed Jealousy stood near
And listened with a cunning ear;
Whilst Melancholy, from the shade
Of russet woodlands came, sad, broken-hearted maid!
2.
As fervently Pygmalion prestErst the cold marble, till with life it glowed,
So, from thy birth, the passion flowed,
Tempered to chaste sensation, in thy breast,
For the coy nymph of modest eye,
Nature's sweet child, Simplicity,
Till the pure essence of her birth became
Thine, and her's the holy flame,
That burned within thy bosom's sacred shrine:—
And not with love more pure than thine
The daughters fair of Pyrrha's race
Gave to Deucalion's sons their youth and virgin grace.
3.
When thy soul, to rapture wrought,Inspiration's brightness caught,
Freer than the morning wind,
It left this dwindling world behind,
And purer regions sought!
And still thy hand, ambitious ever,
Reached to more sublime endeavour!—
Child of song! thou didst inherit
Amphion's fire and untamed pride,
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Soaring o'er Ismenus' tide.
Yet to more soft enchantment did thy hand
Sweep the light chords of Sappho's thrilling lute,
As by Ilissus' stream in Grecian land
Her fingers taught the chastened chord to suit
A broken spirit,—and the quivering wire
Breathed to the echoing air with Love's decaying fire.
III.
1.
Softly, as when the zephyr's wingFans the soft chord at evening's holy tide,
Or, where the babbling waters glide,
The breathing lute, with melancholy string,
Sounds sadly to the morning gale
When night withdraws her sable veil,
Could the enchanter Love's divine control
Soothe to numbers sweet thy soul,
And give to feeling a more hallowed tone;—
And so, when from her solemn throne
Grief touched with chastening hand thy heart,
It beat to sadder measures with diviner art.
2.
Lo! slowly moves the pageant train!And, as from angel harps soft musick breaks,
When the unfettered spirit takes
Its farewell parting from the world and pain,
So, on the ravished ear grows mute
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Again the seraph sings from yon light cloud;—
Mimick Echo laughs aloud,
Where Comus and his Bacchanalian band
Of Satyrs, moving hand in hand,
And sylvan nymphs, with roses crowned,
The car of Thalia draw with lutes of silver sound.
3.
Not unto the Paphian Queen,Moving in her silver sheen,
Be the song, for now is hung
O'er his tomb the lyre unstrung,
And wreathed with cypress sad!
See, see its master-spirit languish!
Tuned each quivering chord to anguish,
Till, with madness in its numbers,
Bursts the string, HE swept before!
Never, woken from its slumbers,
Never, hand may sweep it more!
The earth has taken back the dust it gave,
And sadly now, with melancholy eye,
Afflicted Memory lingers round his grave,
And evening winds the dirge of Genius sigh,
Whilst there the pilgrim's solemn footsteps turn,
And Beauty weeps at night o'er Love's forsaken urn.
| ["Daughter of Coelus! as of old", in] Boston prize poems | |