The Legend of St. Loy With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud |
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On attaining the Age of Twenty-one
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 | The Legend of St. Loy |  |
204
On attaining the Age of Twenty-one
5th July, 1820.
“Thou warble wild, of rough, rude melody!
“How oft I've wooed thee, often thrown thee by;
“In many a doubtful rapture touching thee,
“Waking thy (early) notes in many a sigh.”
Clare — “To my Oaten Reed.”
“How oft I've wooed thee, often thrown thee by;
“In many a doubtful rapture touching thee,
“Waking thy (early) notes in many a sigh.”
Clare — “To my Oaten Reed.”
Hour of Maturity! — whom Bards have hailed,
Sanguine of manhood's hope, though boyhood's failed —
Quit of constraint, we now begin to be;
Escaped dependance, feel that we are free
The world's our own — to win or lose — name,
Brilliant or dark — and each alike is fame!
But let me live, and die, without renown,
If Virtue's sanction make it not her own
O, let the visions of my youth, wherein
I revelled, as an Eden free of sin,
Dreaming of immortality, be void,
If the fond boon may never be enjoyed
But by the taste of the forbidden fruit; —
And be the serpent Hope for ever mute:
'Tis but Ambition in an angel-guise,
The bane of earth, a rebel to the skies!
— And that were a great sacrifice — for they
Have been my hearted solace — night and day;
And when I revelled in them, I did seem
The only being in the fairy dream,
Which was the Universe — and there, methought,
My mind held mastery, and its riches wrought
E'en to her own imaginative will,
And modelled the creation it did fill,
Fixing on but one orb her eagle ken,
Glory! — the crown of angels and of men!
But still of thee, O Virtue! have I sung,
And to thy praise mine early harp was strung.
Fancy had scarcely language, language force,
When from thy high and sempiternal source,
I dared the stream of numbers to deduce,
And weakly wrestled with the mighty Muse,
Upon her mountains, and beside her streams,
Vocal alike with the sublimest themes,
That did with harmony the spirit thrall,
Giving her strength, and charming me of all,
Yet what it captivated still inspired —
Weakly, but resolutely, and untired,
'Till she took pity on my youth extreme,
And bade me rest upon her heart, and dream
That I of her was well-beloved, and there
In a delicious slumber, and so clear
That every sense seemed perfect, and mine ear
Conversant with the music of the spot,
And my soul held communion, felt and thought,
And saw all objects as they were — (and she
Bending her bright blue eyes down upon me,
And her lips bathing mine, my brow, mine eyes,
With kisses made, and modulate of sighs) —
Lapped, I was happy as Endymion, when
Absorbed in Dian's love in Latmos' mystic glen!
And then she sang to me, e'en as I slept,
Sweet soul-deep songs, whose melancholy crept
Over my kindled spirit till it wept
Tears, such as seraphs shed, when they behold
A sight of pity melts their burning mould
To liquid sorrow, till themselves do ponder
Upon their nature's change in awe and wonder,
Then feel themselves more heavenly? Judge how I
Felt — kindled to such height of extacy! —
Sanguine of manhood's hope, though boyhood's failed —
Quit of constraint, we now begin to be;
Escaped dependance, feel that we are free
The world's our own — to win or lose — name,
Brilliant or dark — and each alike is fame!
But let me live, and die, without renown,
If Virtue's sanction make it not her own
205
I revelled, as an Eden free of sin,
Dreaming of immortality, be void,
If the fond boon may never be enjoyed
But by the taste of the forbidden fruit; —
And be the serpent Hope for ever mute:
'Tis but Ambition in an angel-guise,
The bane of earth, a rebel to the skies!
— And that were a great sacrifice — for they
Have been my hearted solace — night and day;
And when I revelled in them, I did seem
The only being in the fairy dream,
Which was the Universe — and there, methought,
My mind held mastery, and its riches wrought
E'en to her own imaginative will,
And modelled the creation it did fill,
Fixing on but one orb her eagle ken,
Glory! — the crown of angels and of men!
But still of thee, O Virtue! have I sung,
And to thy praise mine early harp was strung.
206
When from thy high and sempiternal source,
I dared the stream of numbers to deduce,
And weakly wrestled with the mighty Muse,
Upon her mountains, and beside her streams,
Vocal alike with the sublimest themes,
That did with harmony the spirit thrall,
Giving her strength, and charming me of all,
Yet what it captivated still inspired —
Weakly, but resolutely, and untired,
'Till she took pity on my youth extreme,
And bade me rest upon her heart, and dream
That I of her was well-beloved, and there
In a delicious slumber, and so clear
That every sense seemed perfect, and mine ear
Conversant with the music of the spot,
And my soul held communion, felt and thought,
And saw all objects as they were — (and she
Bending her bright blue eyes down upon me,
And her lips bathing mine, my brow, mine eyes,
With kisses made, and modulate of sighs) —
Lapped, I was happy as Endymion, when
Absorbed in Dian's love in Latmos' mystic glen!
207
Sweet soul-deep songs, whose melancholy crept
Over my kindled spirit till it wept
Tears, such as seraphs shed, when they behold
A sight of pity melts their burning mould
To liquid sorrow, till themselves do ponder
Upon their nature's change in awe and wonder,
Then feel themselves more heavenly? Judge how I
Felt — kindled to such height of extacy! —
Then from such visions waked and so inspired,
I seized the Harp that next me hung, and fired
The tragic chords with one wild whirlwind sound,
Though for awhile the immortal Sister frowned,
Who swayed that instrument, Melpomene;
Twas but to prove what daring was in me —
And then she smiled — and with a fiercer note,
Encouraged thus, and fiercer still, I smote
The tragic chords — and still she smiled, and I
Charmed from the grave of an old history
The tale of Periander , and the rage
Of many passions thundered o'er the stage;
And then, each awful pause between, I turned
To the old theme — Astrea's Altar burned
With holy incense — then I seized again
The tragic Harp, and waked a different strain.
Ossian flashed on me — Lora's field arose,
Upon the shadowy scene, and many woes,
Aldo and Lorma loved; and eke a Maid
Was fashioned forth by Fancy's second aid. —
Those numbers ceased; and in the interim
Of silence, full of Fancy, nothing dim,
I paid my vows to Virtue, and her shrine
Harmonized with the song she made divine.
And, for the time her service ended, then
I mused apart, or mingled among men,
Howe'er reluctantly, and with a sigh
That came from the deep heart's intensity,
Murmured a lover's farewell, just to say,
With what a pang I tore myself away.
And often as I wandered, would an air
Of exquisite unearthliness, — so clear,
So sweet, and fine withall, “that nothing dwelt
“'Twixt it and silence;” yet so deeply felt,
That the soul knew it a reality,—
Come, like a dear and lingering memory,
Of the delightful moments with the Muse
Spent in mysterious dalliance; — and diffuse
The breathings of her spirit upon mine,
Till the world disappeared, and I became divine!
I seized the Harp that next me hung, and fired
The tragic chords with one wild whirlwind sound,
Though for awhile the immortal Sister frowned,
Who swayed that instrument, Melpomene;
Twas but to prove what daring was in me —
And then she smiled — and with a fiercer note,
Encouraged thus, and fiercer still, I smote
The tragic chords — and still she smiled, and I
Charmed from the grave of an old history
The tale of Periander , and the rage
Of many passions thundered o'er the stage;
208
To the old theme — Astrea's Altar burned
With holy incense — then I seized again
The tragic Harp, and waked a different strain.
Ossian flashed on me — Lora's field arose,
Upon the shadowy scene, and many woes,
Aldo and Lorma loved; and eke a Maid
Was fashioned forth by Fancy's second aid. —
Those numbers ceased; and in the interim
Of silence, full of Fancy, nothing dim,
I paid my vows to Virtue, and her shrine
Harmonized with the song she made divine.
And, for the time her service ended, then
I mused apart, or mingled among men,
Howe'er reluctantly, and with a sigh
That came from the deep heart's intensity,
Murmured a lover's farewell, just to say,
With what a pang I tore myself away.
And often as I wandered, would an air
Of exquisite unearthliness, — so clear,
So sweet, and fine withall, “that nothing dwelt
209
That the soul knew it a reality,—
Come, like a dear and lingering memory,
Of the delightful moments with the Muse
Spent in mysterious dalliance; — and diffuse
The breathings of her spirit upon mine,
Till the world disappeared, and I became divine!
This refers to an unpublished Poem of the Author, written at different intervals between the age of 14 and 20, and extending to about 10,000 lines.
A Tragedy begun about the same time with the above-mentioned Poem, and finished before the Author was 15.
Dear Eve! I am thy votarist, and I love
Thy dim and sacred shadows, far above
The broad and garish day — for then it is
I feel abstracted to such extacies,
Glorious conceptions, as are not of earth,
And have spiritual, if not heavenly birth;
And then it was, when all insensibly
Glided the Hermit's Tale within me — I
Bade the world's toiling care's farewell, and sent
My Spirit on strange quest — nor where she went
Heeded, nor what she brought — and so I made
A sound and substance out of less than shade.
Thy dim and sacred shadows, far above
The broad and garish day — for then it is
I feel abstracted to such extacies,
Glorious conceptions, as are not of earth,
And have spiritual, if not heavenly birth;
And then it was, when all insensibly
Glided the Hermit's Tale within me — I
Bade the world's toiling care's farewell, and sent
My Spirit on strange quest — nor where she went
Heeded, nor what she brought — and so I made
A sound and substance out of less than shade.
210
Astrea! then of thee my harp took up
A wilder, sadder strain — on Ida's top
The Muse embraced me, and my sorrow bore,
Mingled her tears with mine, and I loved her the more.
And so the day went down — and to my bed
Came sage and sad Melpomene, and shed
Her inspiration on my visions — gave
Force to my thoughts, and rolled them wave on wave;
Till in a phrenzy, with a lightning flash,
I struck the chords, and brake them with the crash:
Yet nought thereat displeased, she urged me still,
Till I the mighty labour did fulfil.
Short space the task required, for such the zeal
Inflamed me then, enthusiasts nothing feel
To what I felt, when with impatient touch
I hurried o'er the strings, and maddened them too much!
A wilder, sadder strain — on Ida's top
The Muse embraced me, and my sorrow bore,
Mingled her tears with mine, and I loved her the more.
And so the day went down — and to my bed
Came sage and sad Melpomene, and shed
Her inspiration on my visions — gave
Force to my thoughts, and rolled them wave on wave;
Till in a phrenzy, with a lightning flash,
I struck the chords, and brake them with the crash:
Yet nought thereat displeased, she urged me still,
Till I the mighty labour did fulfil.
Short space the task required, for such the zeal
Inflamed me then, enthusiasts nothing feel
To what I felt, when with impatient touch
I hurried o'er the strings, and maddened them too much!
This alludes to another Drama, written in less than six weeks, and under emotions which are but feebly described in the text.
Brus! I have sang of thee
but not in field,
When the fierce battle raged around thy shield,
But when thou wert as I am — secret — lone —
Breathing from the soul's centre, with a tone
Of proud despair, Hope's aspirations, telling
Inanimate Nature that intense, in-dwelling
Thought which we scorn to share with man, and deem
She hath an ear for — Life is but a dream: —
Thine was a glorious one, and 'twas fulfilled; —
Oh, what a ground whereon for Hope to build!
When the fierce battle raged around thy shield,
211
Breathing from the soul's centre, with a tone
Of proud despair, Hope's aspirations, telling
Inanimate Nature that intense, in-dwelling
Thought which we scorn to share with man, and deem
She hath an ear for — Life is but a dream: —
Thine was a glorious one, and 'twas fulfilled; —
Oh, what a ground whereon for Hope to build!
Thus have I worn my youth — all circumstance,
All duty — destiny — and ignorance,
Opposed to the beloved pursuit; and yet,
Thus my mind's secret energies have met
What the world thought omnipotent, nor knew
Whate'er impedeth Fancy doth renew,
And strengthèn the motives unto more — but here,
I challenge Malice' self to make appear,
I have neglected aught of man's concerns,
Where man had claim upon me — still there burns
A flame within me, which if not the same
That kindles Poets unto faith and fame
Is a strange something, and without a name —
Hope leads me on! and in the scene of life,
Henceforth I have my part — or peace or strife —
My character's commenced — e'en as the seed,
So must the fruit be — I have much to heed!
My way is among shoals, and perilous storm,
Where blest is he who 'scapes with little harm,
Where the whole man's absorbed, resisting still
The present, or preventing future ill;
Militant, provident, the heir of pain,
For ever striving never to obtain,
Without due leisure to be happy long,
With little left for love, and none for song.
All duty — destiny — and ignorance,
Opposed to the beloved pursuit; and yet,
Thus my mind's secret energies have met
What the world thought omnipotent, nor knew
Whate'er impedeth Fancy doth renew,
And strengthèn the motives unto more — but here,
I challenge Malice' self to make appear,
I have neglected aught of man's concerns,
Where man had claim upon me — still there burns
A flame within me, which if not the same
That kindles Poets unto faith and fame
Is a strange something, and without a name —
212
Henceforth I have my part — or peace or strife —
My character's commenced — e'en as the seed,
So must the fruit be — I have much to heed!
My way is among shoals, and perilous storm,
Where blest is he who 'scapes with little harm,
Where the whole man's absorbed, resisting still
The present, or preventing future ill;
Militant, provident, the heir of pain,
For ever striving never to obtain,
Without due leisure to be happy long,
With little left for love, and none for song.
But yet, forsake me not, ye Muses! ye
Have many pleasures yet in store for me:
Great Love — great Nature — Beauty — Order — all
The charities, whose voice so soft and small
Is heard not by the million — these are yours; —
And such their worth for ever it endures,
Making Man — Man, and to the Poet giving
A name, for ever bright, for ever living!
Have many pleasures yet in store for me:
Great Love — great Nature — Beauty — Order — all
The charities, whose voice so soft and small
Is heard not by the million — these are yours; —
And such their worth for ever it endures,
Making Man — Man, and to the Poet giving
A name, for ever bright, for ever living!
| The Legend of St. Loy | |