The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
He heard no more, but many a leaf he turned,
When soon his lightened heart with rapture burned.
The poet's muse had led him to the foam
Which is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb;
Where rolling thunder forms the sable cloud,
Which wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud,
Mocks the dread roaring of the raging deep,
When wild despair forbids the sailors weep.
There did he sing, as though he saw the storm,
Its varying terrors rage in every form.
He saw great Ætna to the clouds aspire,
Which seemed to set the arch of night on fire;
While on each hand the boiling waves appear
Red with the light, as if the flames were there.
Scylla below, the thunders from above,
Volcanoes bellowing till the mountains move;
As if great Jove had called his mighty choir,
And touched the strings with his tremendous fire.
He reads the verse the ancient scroll contains,
These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains,
When the fine arch is spread for miles each way,
And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May:
So soft the ancient bard his harp had played,
That to his verses listened many a maid;
He sung the dream of Mary on the hill,
Which showed the secrets of a lady's will.
When soon his lightened heart with rapture burned.
The poet's muse had led him to the foam
Which is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb;
Where rolling thunder forms the sable cloud,
Which wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud,
Mocks the dread roaring of the raging deep,
When wild despair forbids the sailors weep.
There did he sing, as though he saw the storm,
Its varying terrors rage in every form.
He saw great Ætna to the clouds aspire,
Which seemed to set the arch of night on fire;
While on each hand the boiling waves appear
Red with the light, as if the flames were there.
Scylla below, the thunders from above,
Volcanoes bellowing till the mountains move;
As if great Jove had called his mighty choir,
And touched the strings with his tremendous fire.
He reads the verse the ancient scroll contains,
These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains,
When the fine arch is spread for miles each way,
And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May:
So soft the ancient bard his harp had played,
That to his verses listened many a maid;
75
Which showed the secrets of a lady's will.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |