University of Virginia Library

In a wild scene, before unknown,
I stood. Tall mountains on each hand
Reared to the sky their summits lone;
The vale between lay soft and bland
As summer flowers and birds and rills
Could make it. Streamed from 'twixt two hills,
The western sun's refulgence fell,
With yellow gush, along the dell.
Full in the beam a crag there sprung,
With blooming heath empurpled o'er,
And at its base a Fountain flung
Its stainless waters up—to lave
The mountain flowers, that on its wave
Hung bending from the pebbled shore.

Few moments had I gazed, when, lo!
High on that crag in robe of snow,
With folded wings, whose azure far
Surpassed the blue of the western sky
When Spring's new moon peeps there, and the star
Of love hangs, in its beauty, by—
His hair like gathered sunbeams, stood
A radiant Being.—Flesh and blood
Were never wrought into a form
So fine and so aërial; ne'er
Has Fancy imaged aught so fair.
His foot was on the rock, not air;
And yet it seemed the Figure there
Might tread, at will, the storm!

With gesture such as Romans bold
Saw in their orators of old,
I marked him back his mantle fling,
And call, as if to crowds below,
To come and quaff of that pure spring—
A balm, he said, for every woe.
And as he spoke—unseen till then—
I saw with wonder all the glen
Peopled with human beings,—men,
Women, and children, old and young,—
Of every hue and every clime—
All pressing towards the Form sublime,
And eager all to hear
Tones such as mortal ear
Had never heard before from any Muse's tongue.

“Men! men!”—('twas thus he cried, though much my song
His incommunicable pathos wrong)—
“What is your life? Yon cloud behold,
Just o'er the southern mountain rolled—
Whence comes it? Can the wisest tell?
See how it sails above the dell,
Sun-gilt and soft—but soon to meet
The next hill-top on breezes fleet,
And vanishing behind it, go—
Whither? The wisest nothing know.
Such is your life!—Of sordid birth,
Sprung from, and, lastly, mixed with earth,
A space ye feel existence—see
Hour following hour in gloom or glee—
Eat, drink, toil, slumber on—or mark
The stars which nightly gem the dark,
As if to mock you with the dream
Of worlds that ne'er for you must gleam!—
But whence ye came, or wherefore born
To wealth or want, to power or scorn;
Or what is hid behind the shroud—
Whether, when closed your mortal doom,
Your souls shall live beyond the tomb,
Ye know no more than of the cloud!
A blank before, a blank beyond
Your being—that your hearts despond,
What wonder? But a Power Unknown,
Commissioned from whose searchless throne,
I stand—a Fount hath opened here,
Of virtue all the dark to clear,
And show your life, with ills perplexed,
But the dim passage to the next—
A bright and blessed existence, far
Above earth's tumult, toil, and war.
For all who faint, for all who thirst,
These waters in the desert burst;
And whosoe'er, with spirit meek
And lowly, shall this Fountain seek,
To him the precious draught shall be
The draught of Immortality!”
These words pronounced, the Vision bright
Like erring sunbeam glanced from sight.

There was a rush among the crowd—
I saw the old gray-headed Man,
Whom time and care and grief had bowed
Almost to earth, with visage wan,
Reach the pure spring, where, having drunk,
He kneeling on the margin sunk,
His hands in prayer uplifted high—
While on his face and in his eye
Were gleams of bliss that cannot die!
—I saw the Boy of sunny hair,
Of rosy cheek, and snowy brow,
And eye that ever laughed—till now—
Stoop to the wave with serious air,
Then turn, with all the rapture given
By that pure draught, his face to Heaven—
And ne'er may Passion's after trace
That moment's feeling dim or rase!
—I saw the Young Man who had tried
Each pleasure reaped in vicious course,
But who in every pleasure sighed
To miss that somethiny still denied,
And find but pain—regret—remorse.
He drank, he quaffed—no midnight bowl
Had ever so entranced his soul!
—I saw the Maiden, fair and pure
As mortal maid may ever be,
Bend—sweetly, timidly demure—
And taste the wave on grateful knee;
Then render up to Heaven that prayer
Which Heaven loves well to hear—
The prayer of a maiden young and fair
Who has baffled each art, and broken each snare
By the Tempter planted near.

Next came a Youth. His forehead high,
And the proud sparkle of his eye,
Bespoke a haughty mind and strong,
Yet one that, misdirected still,
Knew much of good, but more of ill,
And careless whether right or wrong
The path he took, so he advanced.
Deep scorn was from his gray eye glanced,
Deep scorn his young lip curled;
For he had studied much, and weighed
The maxims which the world obeyed,
And laughed at them, and at the world!
Told of the spring, he came to scan
What new deceit was palmed on man.
He tasted—it was water pure;
But, for its virtue, he was sure
The common stream that threads the dell
Would make Immortals quite as well!
And loud he laughed in men to see
So much of blind credulity.

The wise, the good, the aged came
Around, to pity, plead, or blame.
'Twas vain. Their feelings high he gave
To self-delusion—not the wave.
The heaven-sent vision and the call,
To Phrensy he imputed all.
'Twas Phrensy's wild imaginings
That from the sky had furnished wings,
Robes from some passing vapour white,
And ringlets from the sunset bright;—
Or, failing these, some juggle, planned
For end unknown by cunning hand,
Had made them all (nor great the feat)
The willing dupes of his deceit.
“For me,” he added, “I depart—
And when dull head and saddened heart
Bid me for knowledge seek and bliss,
I'll drink at other Fount than this!”

Scornful he turned away.—To see
Where next the Stripling's path would be,
Curious. I joined his side,
And strange I felt it was, to note
His visage—ay, his very thought,
Myself all unespied;
And stranger yet, to see an Hour
Effect of Years the changing power,
And gathered in one moment brief
A month's adventure, guilt, and grief.

Her crimson curtains Eve had drawn—
With him I crossed a fairy lawn,
And reached a woodbine bower;
There half reclined on mossy seat
A Lady—nought so fair, so sweet,
Was near in bud or flower!
But such allusions, stale and weak,
Of Beauty's magic force to speak,
Have not—and cannot have—the power.
Ah! though to paint the charm sublime
Of Beauty in her sinless time
They fail—of Beauty fall'n and scorned,
Their fragile tints, their blight unmourned,
Present us emblems all too just!
—I saw that Lady free from stain,
And happy in her love. Again
I looked, and saw her tears like rain
Watering her lover's feet—in vain—
As knelt she suppliant in the dust!

He left her—but there shot a pang
Across his brain! He clasps his brow—
O what his self-abhorrence now
Shall soothe or soften?—Hark! there rang
The revellers's shout from yonder Tower,
And Mirth shall charm this moody hour.
—He entered. bright the torches beamed;
The blood-red wine, from goblets streamed,
Had fired each Bacchanal, and long
And loud applauses claimed the song.
The song arose. 'Twas such as Moore
Might from his lyre of witchery pour—
The future and the past it sung
As dreams to which man's weakness clung,
In one gay present life compressed,
And bade him—“Riot and be blest!”

The fancy, weak and wrong at once,
Yet gained from every breast response,
But waked in none around the board
A readier or a louder chord
Than in that Youth's. His spirit sad,
Like some lone spring no sunbeams glad,
Had darkened lain; no more abashed,
It rose, it sparkled, and it flashed,
Amid the hall's nocturnal day,
In wit, in humour, and in lay!
High waxed the glee; and forth the while
From distance gleamed the frequent smile
Of faces fair—and sylph-like shapes
Would nearer steal, and, having charmed
Some eye, would start, as if alarmed,
And make, like fawns, their eoy escapes.
Then was the reign of Lust—for shame
It were to give it fairer name;
Then green-eyed Jealousy, and then
His brother Hate began
To agitate the minds of men;
Then Rage, like tiger from his den,
Rushed rudely through the mingled crowd;
Then eyes grew fiery, words grew loud,
And weapons bare flashed back the glare
Of the hall's lights, and everywhere
The blood of madmen ran.
The place which lately seemed to be
The home of rapture and of glee,
Where Music poured her sweetest flood,
Was now a scene of blows and blood!

Retiring thence in deep disgust,
Exclaimed the Stripling sick at heart—
“That priestly saw, alas! how just,
Which says of Revelry and Lust,
Their end is—Death!” With speed of dart,
He fled; nor stopped, till distant far
From that wild scene of midnight war.
—On lawn and grove a calm there lay,
A calm denied to feverish day.
Far in the west, to vanish soon,
Hung low and dim the weary moon;
But all above, innumerous sprinkled,
The cloudless stars in glory twinkled.
Their holy beauty touched his breast,
And thus his tongue its power confessed:
“Ay, there ye shine! Whatever jars
A world of madmen madly keep,
A peace is yours, resplendent stars!
Eternal, awful, dread, and deep.
A calm, which yet with mightier power
Than that of words—unless they were
Composed of star-beams, and could bear
From his divine, unseen abode
The very thoughts themselves of God!—
Proclaims to man, in such an hour,
That, far retired your orbs behind,
An unimaginable Mind,
Invisible, though throned in light,
Upholds this awful state of Night!
O why retired?—O! if in me
A spirit lives, derived from thee,
And, like thee, deathless—wherefore leave
That soul in endless doubt to grieve?
Why not, descending from above,
Thy Glory softened down by Love,
Away the mists of error roll,
And flash the Truth upon my soul—
The glorious truth, if truth it be,
That man shall live eternally?
—In vain I question, vainly try
Into the future's gloom to pry.
The baseless hopes, the glimpses faint
Of ancient sage or modern saint
No light impart; and Thou—sitt'st lone
And silent on thy sullen throne!”

“Beware!” I whispered, and the word
Within his spirit's depth was heard,
And seemed to him a thought there sprung
To blame the rashness of his tongue,
A check by watchful Conscience given—
That Monitor to man from heaven.
“Beware of Blasphemy! nor urge
One thought to its tremendous verge!
No tyrant he; nor, though so high,
Does he from man avert his eye.
Has he not oped a Fountain free,
Invited all—invited thee
To come and drink; and, drinking, learn
Whate'er it boots thee to discern?
Go—taste and live! thy school-taught pride
And high-flown notions thrown aside.”
“Dreams!” cried the Youth, as if replying
To his own heart—“Dreams which, decrying
Man's mighty powers, would level all
To those of reptiles. Shall I crawl
To Falsehood's shrine, and there lay down
My wit—my wisdom—my renown—
The wild renown that ever gathers
Around his name who hath avowed
Opinions different from the crowd,
Who dares to think above his fathers?
Shall I sail down Life's common river
With all the dully pious? Never!”

Morn came. I marked a pageant fair—
The sound of bells was abroad in the air.
A lovely Maid, in her beauty's bloom,
Walked by the side of her gay Bridegroom;
And wild flowers, gathered from mountain and strath,
Were strewed by fair girls in the young Bride's path.
It passed away; and I saw till that bride
The happiest of mothers became—and eyed
With looks of deep love and maternal joy
The babe on her bosom—a bright-haired Boy!
I saw till he grew, and with prattling tongue
Could lisp their names that over him hung
With the love that, increasing day by day,
Clasps all the heart in its blissful sway,
Still intertwisting the fibres there
With ties—which to sever is Woe and Despair!

Grief follows joy. The marriage bell
Soon changes to the funeral knell.
The flowers that wreathed the bridegroom's head,
Are wanted soon to grace the dead!
—That Boy—the object of more love
Than aught below or aught above,
Alas the pity!—died. I saw
Death o'er his eye's blue softness draw
The darkening film; take every streak
Of rose-hue from his dimpled cheek;
And yet life's tint on the sweet lips spare,
And the glossy shine of the sunny hair.
I saw him laid in the wormy bed,
And I marked the tears which fell,
As the dull earth slid on his coffin lid
With an echo like a knell.
And the pangs that tore each parent's breast,
As they left the spot of their sweet Boy's rest
I saw—but cannot tell!

The grave which closed above his child,
To that sad Father dimmed the world—
No more with hope or joy he smiled;
Deep scorn no more his proud lip curled.
His joy was fled, his hope was dead,
And for his scorn,—O! what has he
To do with scorn, who sits forlorn
In the dark night of misery?
Where shall he turn to be consoled?
Consoled? Ah never!—but resigned?
Can science to his eye unfold
The truth which heals the wounded mind?
Can all the store of classic lore
'Vail him from whom e'en Pride has parted?
Or early Fame the strong spell frame
To re-exalt the broken-hearted?

He could not bear to think the earth
Held all his Boy! whose face of mirth—
Whose playful arts—whose winning ways—
Whose tears at blame—whose pride at praise—
Whose flying hair, and radiant brow
Were—as in life—before him now!
That sparkling eye where, as he deemed,
The light of early genius beamed—
Had death for ever quenched its ray?
And could that genius pass away?
The form, a flower of mortal birth,
Might fitly turn again to earth;
But could the spirit—for he felt
Some principle within him dwelt
Above mere matter—could it pass,
Like meteor of the dark morass?
“O no—it lives! it lives!” he cried
In transport. Then he paused and sighed.
The thought, he found, was balm to grief,
But it was hope, and not belief.
“O! worlds on worlds, if these were mine,
I would, without a sigh, resign
To him who should assure my heart
That still, my child, thou art—thou art!
That where thou liv'st thy sire may soar—
With thee reside—with thee adore—
In a fair land where death nor pain
Shall reach my bright-haired Boy again!”

This was my time, and Heaven's!—I gave
A hint of the all-healing wave.
My whispers to his ear conveyed
The words the Shining Form had said—
“For all who faint, for all who thirst,
These waters in the desert burst;
And whosoe'er, with spirit meek
And lowly, shall this Fountain seek,
To him the precious draught shall be
The draught of Immortality!”
He started. At his inmost soul
He felt the offer's pointed kindness;
No longer swayed by Pride's controul,
And feeling now his weakness—blindness—
Heart-bruised, and humbled—all his mind
Was bent the Wondrous Fount to find.
The evening sun was shining
Upon that rock again;
And flowers, as erst, were lining
The Fount that knew no stain;
And crowds, of its pure wave to drink,
Were pressing still around the brink;
When he its verdant margin won,
That Father of a buried son.
He kneeled him down to drink, but ere
He tasted, raised his eyes in prayer—
“High Dweller of Eternity!
Unseen, though round us—hear me! hear!
I've asked the Sun to tell of thee:
He answered, from his burning sphere,
‘A glorious being made me—bright—
A system's centre and its light,
Whence an exhaustless day is hurled
From zone to zone of every world!’
—I've asked the Earth, the Ocean: this,
In thunder from his vast abyss,
Bade me the Mighty Hand remark
That must have scooped his dwellings dark!
Earth spoke of it from hill and flood
From peopled vale and sounding wood!
—I've asked the Heavens: their mute reply
Was glanced from every star on high,
‘There is a God!’ Orion cried;
‘A God!’ the Pleiades replied;
The Moon announced it as she rode,
The west's fair planet beamed—‘A God!’
—I knew thou art, and, knowing so,
Felt more was wanting than to know;
The Maker, all things else above,
Ought to possess the creature's love.
I tried to love thee; but my breast,
Unmoved, retained its marble rest.
I tried to pray; my prayers, alas!
Returned as from a sky of brass.
In books I sought the food to find
Suited to my life-grasping mind;
Unfounded hopes! conjectures bold!
Despair was all they taught or told.
—At last, great Power! my reasoning pride
As vain and worthless cast aside—
Erring—and blind—and broken—see!
At this pure Fount I bend to thee.
And that it is indeed the sole
Spring, which can make the wounded whole—
Render the eye-sight strong to scan
The hidden destiny of man—
See, at the close of this world's strife,
The brilliant dawn of endless life—
I, who have, in my depth of grief,
Found worthless every spring beside,
Would fain believe,—O Heavenly Guide
Pardon and help my unbelief!”

This said, he drank—he drank! and O!
The change his altering features show.
The cloud of sorrow and despair
Hath passed—no more to darken there!
His eye, lit up by holiest faith,
Pierces the darksome veil of death,
Sees his lost child, a Seraph bright,
Wandering among the bowers of light;
And tears are gushing down his cheeks,
But every tear of rapture speaks!