Laurella and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Spirit of beauty, hail!
Thou that dost haunt still glen or sunny lea,
Or in the forest, Dryad-like, dost dwell,
That comest in the whisperings of the gale
Or 'mid the thunder-music of the sea,
Or with the fragrance of the thymy dell:
O Spirit, which art one with Nature all,
On thee I call!
By the unfathomed mysteries
Hid in thine ethereal eyes;
By their serene, heart-healing spell,
Dowered with virtue to make well
The wounds of life, to banish sadness,
And fill the breast with tremulous gladness;
By thy sceptre that can raise
Solemn pageants of old days;

269

And scare the ghosts of our dull night
With glimpses of to-morrow's light,
I do conjure thee, stoop to me,
Daughter of heaven and earth, flute-voicéd Poesy!

II.

Come, waft me with thee in thy dreamy car,
Far from this mental treadmill of the desk,
And from the babbling, bustling world afar,
To where the oak flings wide his boughs grotesque
Over some lonely stream:
Some quiet stream, some lilied woodland stream,
Warbling strange wood-songs o'er its pebbly bed,
Its waters, glad with many an amber gleam,
By sunshine mellowing through the boughs o'er-head
To nectar turned. Here let me lie 'mid fern
And balmy grass, breathing the fresh wood-smells,
And over-waved by woodbine, while I learn
The fairy lore rung out from foxglove bells.
Here let me drink the silent utterings
Of the beautiful wild things
That round me peer and climb, buzzed o'er by bees
Which singing labour; ere I pass from these,
Over all space and time to fly with thee,
Joy-giving Poesy!
Ere from out the golden chalice,

270

At the pearl gates of thy palace,
I quaff the rich, fire-hearted wine,
That makes mortals half-divine,
And inherit uncontrolled
All the godlike bards of old
Ever sung or ever told.

III.

First let me range that mythic world
Of phantasy, when smoke upcurled
From many an altar reared to Jove,
And haunted was each stream and grove
With shapes of beauty of immortal mould:
In that unfabled age of gold
When the poet's heart was young,
And all men poets, and there clung
Round visible things a mystery
Of unperturbed infinity.

IV.

Suddenly I am rapt from out the real,
To the crystal sphere of the ideal!
Hark! 'tis the golden lyre of young Apollo,
Whom in a mystic dance the Muses follow;
Or Artemis, her huntress Oreads
Rousing the echoes of the still wood-glades,
Under a crescent moon; or wine-flushed Bacchus,
Drawn royally by his leopards—conquering Bacchus,

271

With all his rout of followers, ivy-crowned,
And wild Bacchantes—leaping to the sound
Of clashing cymbals, tossing cups of gold
And waving thyrses. Then, deep in some old
And sacred forest, wakes a silver din
Of shalms and shrill sweet pipes, and out and in
Among the tree-boles dart a merry clan—
The train of Pan!
And white-limbed wood-nymphs shriek among the boughs,
Pursued by lusty satyrs, till the brows,
The rugged brows, of Pan himself appear;
And forth the pageant issues, and such a clear
And jubilant shout goes up of ‘Pan! Pan! Pan!’
As was ne'er heard by man.
Anon the car of foam-born Aphrodeite
Comes surging through the spume, urged by the mighty
Arms of a triton throng—a pearly car
Of opal hues, wherein glows like a star
The goddess in her new-born nakedness
Of rose-flushed beauty—to the silver stress
Of Nereid harps, and deep sea-sounding horns
By sea-gods blown—such as on summer morns
Boom landward with the tide. And round her throng,
Sporting amid the spray, and oared along
By their white-ankled feet with gleeful ease,
The Oceanides:

272

The snowy tossing of their gleaming arms,
And multitudinous, billowy bosoms, charms
The ruffled waves to rest. Green-eyed sea-snakes,
With diamond coils that leave far-flashing wakes,
Follow behind.

But hark! the whelming thunder
Crashes above. Black storm-clouds, rent asunder
By angry lightnings, swallow up the scene.
The deep moans to the tempest. Icy keen
Fierce north-winds rushing down with frost and snow
Rave through the shrieking forest. In their woe
The gentle spirits of the earth cry out;
Aloft upon the blast a demon rout
Ruffians it through the spaces of the sky,
And from the deep shudders an awful cry:
‘The throne of Zeus is fallen!’

V.

Fled are those visions. O ye woods, no more
The abode of Dryads! O ye woodland streams
No more nymph-haunted! O thou ancient shore,
No longer peopled by the poet's dreams,
Farewell! Yet hast thou larger joys for me
Star-crownéd Poesy!

VI.

The golden gates are oped—I see
Bright shapes of Gothic chivalry;

273

Hear afar weird trumpets blown,
Catch the minstrel's wizard tone,
In lofty words of glad acclaim
Resounding each heroic name,
And I breathe a dim perfume
Of old romances. Grandly loom
Sunned spaces of enchanted land,
With misty peaks on either hand,
Full of dreadful sounds and voices
When the fiend-raised storm rejoices;
Castles and palaces and towers
Of another world than ours,
Such as happy dreamers spy
At sunset in the western sky;
And stretched away, the cliffs between,
Forests dark and meadows green,
Where flowers that medicine lovers' woe,
And herbs of stellar virtue grow;
Magic meres and haunted lakes,
And rivers where a dragon slakes
His hissing thirst; and everywhere
Gallant knights and ladies fair,—
Waving plumes and pawing steeds,
Lovely words and doughty deeds.

Now slow pass before mine eyes
Long pomps and gorgeous pageantries,
With standards royally unrolled,—

274

Flash of jewels, blaze of gold,
Purple and crimson blazonry;
But o'er the silken sheen I see
Still stern faces of great kings,
And the keen steel music rings
Through the gleaming play of pearls
On the round white arms of girls—
Each, her champion's thronéd queen,
On the tourney gazing keen,
While below, 'mid shivering lances,
Lovers strive for gentle glances.

Then the sunshine waxeth dim,
And a deep sonorous hymn
Peals through a cathedral's aisles,
Where the Virgin-Mother smiles
Placidly on the blessed Babe;
And, each cross-legged on his slab,
Lie the calm cold effigies;
And on quaint-wrought traceries,
Pillared niche, and blazoned wall,
Rich melodies of colour fall
From the splendours of the pane
Where crownéd saints and martyrs reign
In sacred pomp and high romance;
And cowering devils peep askance
From carven phantasies of stone;
And long candle-flames are blown

275

Flaringly by the balm-sick air,
Which makes the banners pendant there,
Faded memories of the brave,
Warm with perfume as they wave,
While the censer smokes and swings;
And a mystic sweetness clings
To robes of prostrate worshippers,
Prince and peasant; and none stirs,
For the Host is held on high;
But round the hallowed place a sigh
Of dumb adoration steals.
Low before the altar kneels
A mailed and purpled Emperor;
All the thunderbolts of war
Vailed—a shadowy pretence,
Before the Church's dread magnificence.

VII.

Fled, they too fled, fond shapes of youth's delight,
Their glamour faded from the workday world!
What lamp of joy shall glorify the night
Wherein they sink? O yet, thy wings unfurled
For mightier flights, thy stern eyes comfort me,
Strength-bringing Poesy!