 | Poems by Bernard Barton |  |
223
TO THE WINDS.
Ye viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not, in times gone by
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied.
I marvel not, in times gone by
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,
To me oft has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied.
Awful your power! when, by your might
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains in your wrath;
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,
Yawn like Death's opening path!
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains in your wrath;
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the seaman rous'd from sleep,
Yawn like Death's opening path!
Graceful your play! when, round the bower
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreath,
And stir her silken hair.
Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower,
To wreathe her dark locks there,
Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe
The leaves between, flit round that wreath,
And stir her silken hair.
224
Still, thoughts like these are but of earth,
And you can give far loftier birth:—
Ye come!—we know not whence!
Ye go!—can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight:
Though audible to sense.
And you can give far loftier birth:—
Ye come!—we know not whence!
Ye go!—can mortals trace your flight?
All imperceptible to sight:
Though audible to sense.
The Sun,—his rise, and set we know;
The Sea,—we mark its ebb, and flow;
The Moon,—her wax, and wane;
The Stars,—Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrant paths can tell;—
But You his search disdain.
The Sea,—we mark its ebb, and flow;
The Moon,—her wax, and wane;
The Stars,—Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrant paths can tell;—
But You his search disdain.
Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things!
Who mock all our imaginings,
Like Spirits in a dream;
What epithet can words supply
Unto the Bard who takes such high
Unmanageable theme?
Who mock all our imaginings,
Like Spirits in a dream;
What epithet can words supply
Unto the Bard who takes such high
Unmanageable theme?
But one:—to me, when Fancy stirs
My thoughts, ye seem Heaven's messengers,
Who leave no path untrod;
And when, as now, at midnight's hour,
I hear your voice in all its power,
It seems the Voice of God.
My thoughts, ye seem Heaven's messengers,
Who leave no path untrod;
And when, as now, at midnight's hour,
I hear your voice in all its power,
It seems the Voice of God.
| Poems by Bernard Barton | |