The Hope of the World and other poems by Charles Mackay |
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| REVERIES. |
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 | The Hope of the World and other poems |  |
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REVERIES.
TO THE WINDS.
I called on the rushing blast.
—Ossian.
—Ossian.
Wind of the winter night, whence comest thou?
And whither, oh! whither, art wandering now?
Sad, sad is thy voice on this desolate moor,
And mournful, oh! mournful, thy howl at my door.
Say, where hast thou been on thy cloud-lifted car,
Say, what hast thou seen in thy roamings afar,
What sorrow impels thee, thou boisterous blast,
Thus to mourn and complain as thou journeyest past?
Dost weep that the green sunny summer hath fled,
That the leaves of the forest are withered and dead,
That the groves and the woodlands re-echo no more
The light-hearted music they teem'd with of yore?
That the song of the lark and the hum of the bee,
Have ceased for awhile on the snow-cover'd lea?
Say, wind of the winter-night, whence comest thou,
And whither, oh! whither, art wandering now?
And whither, oh! whither, art wandering now?
Sad, sad is thy voice on this desolate moor,
And mournful, oh! mournful, thy howl at my door.
Say, where hast thou been on thy cloud-lifted car,
Say, what hast thou seen in thy roamings afar,
What sorrow impels thee, thou boisterous blast,
Thus to mourn and complain as thou journeyest past?
Dost weep that the green sunny summer hath fled,
That the leaves of the forest are withered and dead,
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The light-hearted music they teem'd with of yore?
That the song of the lark and the hum of the bee,
Have ceased for awhile on the snow-cover'd lea?
Say, wind of the winter-night, whence comest thou,
And whither, oh! whither, art wandering now?
“I have come from the deep, where the storm in its wrath
Spread havoc and death on its pitiless path,
Where the billows rose up as the lightnings flew by,
And twisted their arms in the dun-colour'd sky:
And I saw a frail vessel, all torn by the wave,
Drawn down with her crew to a fathomless grave,
And I heard the loud creek of her hull as I past,
And the flap of her sails and the crash of her mast;
And I raised my shrill voice on the cold midnight air,
To drown the last cry of the sailor's despair,
But it smote on my ear like the tocsin of death,
As he strove with the fierce-rolling waters for breath;
'Tis his requiem I tune as I howl through the sky,
And repent of the fury that caused him to die.
Spread havoc and death on its pitiless path,
Where the billows rose up as the lightnings flew by,
And twisted their arms in the dun-colour'd sky:
And I saw a frail vessel, all torn by the wave,
Drawn down with her crew to a fathomless grave,
And I heard the loud creek of her hull as I past,
And the flap of her sails and the crash of her mast;
And I raised my shrill voice on the cold midnight air,
To drown the last cry of the sailor's despair,
But it smote on my ear like the tocsin of death,
As he strove with the fierce-rolling waters for breath;
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And repent of the fury that caused him to die.
“And far have I roam'd on the desolate shore,
And the cold dreary wastes of the tenantless moor,
Where a hoary old man journey'd on thro' the plain,
To his bright-blazing hearth and his children again;
And I sigh'd as I rush'd o'er that desert of snow,
For I saw not the path where the traveller should go:
For a moment he paused in that wilderness drear,
And clasp'd his cold hands as he listen'd to hear
The bark of his dog from his cot in the dell,
Or the long-wish'd for toll of the far village bell.
Poor weary old man! he was feeble and chill,
And the sounds that he loved were all silent and still,
For vainly he turn'd his dim glance to the sky,
And vainly he sought with his tremulous eye
Some light in the distance, whose pale beaming ray
Might guide him aright on his comfortless way;
Till, fainting and chill, he turn'd wearily back,
And tried to recover the snow-hidden track.
Ah! vainly he strove, and no sound could he hear,
To tell his sad heart that a refuge was near,
When, worn by the load of his toil and his woe,
He mutter'd a prayer, and sank down on the snow;
And I heard the last gasp of his quick fleeting breath,
His last dying groan, as he struggled with death:
And I mourn for him now on this desolate moor,
And tune his sad dirge as I howl at thy door.
And the cold dreary wastes of the tenantless moor,
Where a hoary old man journey'd on thro' the plain,
To his bright-blazing hearth and his children again;
And I sigh'd as I rush'd o'er that desert of snow,
For I saw not the path where the traveller should go:
For a moment he paused in that wilderness drear,
And clasp'd his cold hands as he listen'd to hear
The bark of his dog from his cot in the dell,
Or the long-wish'd for toll of the far village bell.
Poor weary old man! he was feeble and chill,
And the sounds that he loved were all silent and still,
For vainly he turn'd his dim glance to the sky,
And vainly he sought with his tremulous eye
Some light in the distance, whose pale beaming ray
Might guide him aright on his comfortless way;
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And tried to recover the snow-hidden track.
Ah! vainly he strove, and no sound could he hear,
To tell his sad heart that a refuge was near,
When, worn by the load of his toil and his woe,
He mutter'd a prayer, and sank down on the snow;
And I heard the last gasp of his quick fleeting breath,
His last dying groan, as he struggled with death:
And I mourn for him now on this desolate moor,
And tune his sad dirge as I howl at thy door.
“I have been where the snow on the chill mountain peak
Would have frozen the blood in the ruddiest cheek,
And for many a dismal and desolate day,
No beam of the sunshine has brighten'd my way;
But I weep not that winter hath bared the green tree,
And hush'd the sweet voice of the bird and the bee;
I sigh not that Summer hath fled from the plain,
For the Spring will return in its brightness again;
But I mourn and complain for the wail and the woe
That I've seen on my course as I journey'd below;
For I've heard the loud shout of the Demon of War,
And the peal of his guns as they flash'd from afar,
And heard the lone widows and orphans complain,
As they wet with their tears the pale cheeks of the slain;
And I sigh as I think on the miseries of man,
And the crimes and the follies that measure his span.”
Would have frozen the blood in the ruddiest cheek,
And for many a dismal and desolate day,
No beam of the sunshine has brighten'd my way;
But I weep not that winter hath bared the green tree,
And hush'd the sweet voice of the bird and the bee;
I sigh not that Summer hath fled from the plain,
For the Spring will return in its brightness again;
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That I've seen on my course as I journey'd below;
For I've heard the loud shout of the Demon of War,
And the peal of his guns as they flash'd from afar,
And heard the lone widows and orphans complain,
As they wet with their tears the pale cheeks of the slain;
And I sigh as I think on the miseries of man,
And the crimes and the follies that measure his span.”
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THE SEA-SHORE.
Come, gentle phantasie,Come to my lone retreat,
Beside the rolling sea,
Where the playful billows beat:
Come at still twilight's time,
When the star of evening beams above,
And looks on earth with a look of love,
From her far cerulean clime;
And on the shore
The waters' roar
Shall to our ears rough music make,
And sweet shall be
Their melody,
As the wind doth o'er them break.
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And now the struggle and the strife,
The cares and toils of busy life,
Sink for awhile in sleep:
And she, Thought's pallid queen,
Arises on her gentle way,
Scattering far her tremulous ray
With calm and holy sheen.
Now is the hour when Feeling wakes,
Now is the hour when Fancy takes
Her far and heavenward flight;
Now every evil passion dies,
Now Hope lifts up her gentle eyes—
O lovely hour of night!
I gaze upon the roaring sea,
And vague deep thoughts crowd o'er my mind.
There lies the dread immensity,
And o'er the region of the wind
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On which the thought can not repose,
Whose secrets we can not disclose—
O! happy, happy dead!
Perchance to you your God has given
To know the secrets of the heaven,
On angels' wings afar to fly,
And scan the wonders of the sky;
And often, 'mid the darkness dim,
The soul forgets its feeble shell,
As if 'twould pierce the ways of Him
Whose ways no human heart can tell.
The soul expands, as if to see
If it can grasp Eternity,
And pass the bounds of time and space—
But, ah! there is no resting-place
For such adventurous flight.
These are the aspirings of the spirit
To the home it shall inherit;
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A feeble gleam
Of what the soul may be when pass'd this earthly night.
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THE NYMPH OF SOLITUDE.
Why, Solitude, why hath the minstrel forsaken
The festive repast of the fair and the free?
Why leaves he the city,
The wise and the witty,
To roam thro' the woods in communion with thee?
“He flies from the board of the rich and the lovely,
He flies from the wiles of the proud and the vain,
Adown the wood stealing,
He comes to my shieling,
To gain back his peace and his wisdom again.”
The festive repast of the fair and the free?
Why leaves he the city,
The wise and the witty,
To roam thro' the woods in communion with thee?
“He flies from the board of the rich and the lovely,
He flies from the wiles of the proud and the vain,
Adown the wood stealing,
He comes to my shieling,
To gain back his peace and his wisdom again.”
Why, Solitude, why hath the maiden forsaken
Her couch for the shore of the desolate sea?
Why leaves she her pillow
To gaze on the billow?
What charms can she find in communion with thee?
“She roams all alone in the silence and darkness,
To think undisturb'd on her lover afar;
She seeks the lone shingle,
In sadness to mingle
Her sighs and her prayers for her absent Hussar.”
Her couch for the shore of the desolate sea?
Why leaves she her pillow
To gaze on the billow?
What charms can she find in communion with thee?
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To think undisturb'd on her lover afar;
She seeks the lone shingle,
In sadness to mingle
Her sighs and her prayers for her absent Hussar.”
Why, Solitude, why do the worn and the weary,
The sad and the sorrowful, fly to thy side?
With thee do they wander,
In sadness to ponder
O'er joys and o'er hopes which the world hath denied?
“Communion with man can but render them cunning,
Communion with Nature doth render them wise:
Adown the wood stealing,
They come to my shieling,
And find in my bosom the peace which they prize!”
The sad and the sorrowful, fly to thy side?
With thee do they wander,
In sadness to ponder
O'er joys and o'er hopes which the world hath denied?
“Communion with man can but render them cunning,
Communion with Nature doth render them wise:
Adown the wood stealing,
They come to my shieling,
And find in my bosom the peace which they prize!”
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THE WOOD-NYMPH.
“Muse des bois et des accords champêtres.”
Far from bustle, strife, and care,
'Mong the woods I've woo'd her,
And to her secluded nook,
By the margin of a brook,
And by waters bright and blue,
Over meadows wet with dew,
Many a time pursued her:
And far away in forests lone,
Listening to the plaintive tone
Of the windy weather,
She and I, at midnight's time,
Have sat and sung together.
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Poor in worldly treasure,
But she hath a smile of light,
And an eye of hazel bright,
Beaming love and pleasure.
A forest maid, she loves to dwell
In her solitary cell,
Nursing, in her still retreat,
All the passions mild and sweet;
And breathing many a plaintive ditty
Of Hope, and Joy, and Love, and Pity.
She is a fair and woodland nymph,
A wild and artless mountain beauty
Whose witching tongue,
Doth lure the young
From lucre and hard duty.
This nymph so poor, and yet so free,
Who can she be but Poesy?
104
TO AN EAGLE.
O for thy cleaving wings,
To brave the rugged blast,
In spite of wind and storm to soar
O'er mount and meadow vast!
O that I might, like thee,
O'er Alpine summits fly,
And travel, unconfined and free,
The nearest to the sky!
To brave the rugged blast,
In spite of wind and storm to soar
O'er mount and meadow vast!
O that I might, like thee,
O'er Alpine summits fly,
And travel, unconfined and free,
The nearest to the sky!
O that mine eye, like thine,
Upon the sun might gaze,
And revel in that living light,
Undazzled by the blaze!
O that my rapid flight
O'er boundless ether driven,
Might never leave, for things of earth,
The brighter ones of heaven!
Upon the sun might gaze,
And revel in that living light,
Undazzled by the blaze!
O that my rapid flight
O'er boundless ether driven,
Might never leave, for things of earth,
The brighter ones of heaven!
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Here, when the soul inspired
Would leave the world behind,
Forgetting its affinity
To sorrow and mankind,
With eye like thine, to scan
The wonders of its birth,
Some petty care disturbs its flight,
And draws it back to earth.
Would leave the world behind,
Forgetting its affinity
To sorrow and mankind,
With eye like thine, to scan
The wonders of its birth,
Some petty care disturbs its flight,
And draws it back to earth.
O for thy cleaving wings!
O for thy toppling nest!
To dwell upon the mountain tops,
With Nature for my guest:
Fann'd by the rushing wind,
Rejoicing in the blast,
And soaring in the light of morn
O'er woods and waters vast!
O for thy toppling nest!
To dwell upon the mountain tops,
With Nature for my guest:
Fann'd by the rushing wind,
Rejoicing in the blast,
And soaring in the light of morn
O'er woods and waters vast!
106
NIGHT.
O Night and Silence, ye are wondrous strong.
—Byron.
—Byron.
'Tis sweet to roam alone
In some sequester'd wood,
When slumbering Echo hears no sound,
When Night and Silence spread around
A holy solitude;
When through the vales,
Capricious gales
Sweep fitfully along in melancholy mood.
In some sequester'd wood,
When slumbering Echo hears no sound,
When Night and Silence spread around
A holy solitude;
When through the vales,
Capricious gales
Sweep fitfully along in melancholy mood.
Oh! in that solemn hour,
When starry Night has flung
Her balmy mantle o'er the dale,
And when the love-lorn nightingale
Her last complaint has sung;
When all is still,
O'er grove and hill,
Oh! then the Spirit wakes, and Silence has a tongue!
When starry Night has flung
Her balmy mantle o'er the dale,
And when the love-lorn nightingale
Her last complaint has sung;
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O'er grove and hill,
Oh! then the Spirit wakes, and Silence has a tongue!
Silence, on dusky wing,
Recals the dim years fled.
Before the pensive spirit, move
Visions of friendship and of love,
Thoughts of the peaceful dead,
Who, though they sleep
In darkness deep,
Lie not forgotten in their quiet bed.
Recals the dim years fled.
Before the pensive spirit, move
Visions of friendship and of love,
Thoughts of the peaceful dead,
Who, though they sleep
In darkness deep,
Lie not forgotten in their quiet bed.
Silence awakens Hope,
Crown'd with consoling light,
Who wipes away the tear of woe,
That Memory might have caused to flow,
And gladdens Sorrow's night;
Like a gay dream,
Her cheering beam
Dispels the gathering mist, and all again is bright.
Crown'd with consoling light,
Who wipes away the tear of woe,
That Memory might have caused to flow,
And gladdens Sorrow's night;
Like a gay dream,
Her cheering beam
Dispels the gathering mist, and all again is bright.
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Silence is eloquent
In converse with the mind;
Beneath your beam, ye silent stars,
Fancy forgets life's petty jars,
And leaves dull earth behind;
With daring eye
It soars on high,
Flies o'er the boundless heaven and treads the stormy wind.
In converse with the mind;
Beneath your beam, ye silent stars,
Fancy forgets life's petty jars,
And leaves dull earth behind;
With daring eye
It soars on high,
Flies o'er the boundless heaven and treads the stormy wind.
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THE LARK.
Whither, O sweet lark! whither away,
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, “Rejoice! rejoice!”
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, “Rejoice! rejoice!”
As long as the fields and the woods are green,
The breezes soft, and the sky serene,
Happy art thou, O bird of morn!
Greeting the beam o'er the far hills borne.
The breezes soft, and the sky serene,
Happy art thou, O bird of morn!
Greeting the beam o'er the far hills borne.
O for a wing and a voice like thine,
To revel and sing in the morning shine!
O for a spirit untouched by care,
A soul unworn by the world's despair!
To revel and sing in the morning shine!
O for a spirit untouched by care,
A soul unworn by the world's despair!
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Floating aloft on thy russet wing,
Pleasant to thee are the days of spring;
Thou hast no sorrow to make thee moan,
For sorrow is man's, and man's alone!
Pleasant to thee are the days of spring;
Thou hast no sorrow to make thee moan,
For sorrow is man's, and man's alone!
Whither, O sweet lark! whither away,
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, “Rejoice! rejoice!”
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, “Rejoice! rejoice!”
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THE AUTUMN LEAF.
Pauvre feuille dessechée! où vas-tu?
—Arnault.
—Arnault.
Poor autumn leaf! down floating
Upon the blustering gale;
Torn from thy bough,
Where goest now,
Wither'd, and shrunk, and pale?
Upon the blustering gale;
Torn from thy bough,
Where goest now,
Wither'd, and shrunk, and pale?
“I go, thou sad inquirer,
As list the winds to blow,
Sear, sapless, lost,
And tempest-tost,
I go where all things go.
As list the winds to blow,
Sear, sapless, lost,
And tempest-tost,
I go where all things go.
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“The rude winds bear me onward
As suiteth them, not me,
O'er dale, o'er hill,
Through good, through ill,
As Destiny bears thee.
As suiteth them, not me,
O'er dale, o'er hill,
Through good, through ill,
As Destiny bears thee.
“What though for me one summer,
And threescore for thy breath—
I live my span,
Thou thine, poor man!
And then adown to death!
And threescore for thy breath—
I live my span,
Thou thine, poor man!
And then adown to death!
“And thus we go together
For lofty as thy lot
And lowly mine,
My fate is thine,
To die, and be forgot!”
For lofty as thy lot
And lowly mine,
My fate is thine,
To die, and be forgot!”
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TO ROMANCE.
Sweet deceiver! who so oftHast lull'd my soul with visions soft;
When the heart is new and young,
Thou dost come with honey'd tongue,
Whispering to confiding youth
Tales of Friendship, Love, and Truth:
In thy mirror, life is seen
Bright and pure, and ever green!—
Alas! and must thy visions fade?
Thy brightness darken into shade?—
The clear, but cold reality
Breathes upon thy reverie—
Straight thy fairy visions fly,
Their gorgeous hues grow pale and die;
We find that in Misfortune's day
Friendship can wither or betray;
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The glance of love in Beauty's eye;
That sordid wealth can cover crime,
That merit stoops while blockheads climb!
Romance! thy fairy spell is o'er,
Thy lovely visions charm no more;
Too often by thy wiles betray'd,
I'll woo no more thy gentle aid;—
Yet why?—'Tis pleasing to believe—
Thy dreams are sweet, though they deceive.
| The Hope of the World and other poems | |