The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON SHAKSPEAR'S REPRESENTING ANTIGONUS LANDING WITH
PERDITA ON THE SEACOAST OF BOHEMIA. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ON SHAKSPEAR'S REPRESENTING ANTIGONUS LANDING WITH PERDITA ON THE SEACOAST OF BOHEMIA.
Fast sails the fairy-bark—she doth not bear
Dull freightage of mere mortal hopes and fears,
But costly merchandise, to unknown spheres,
The Muse's lands—with sun and stars more fair,
And groves elysian—few voyáge there—
Yet still, to some great soul, that land uprears
Its forehead, glorious, from the deep, who steers
His course forthright its wonders to declare!
Soft comes the breath of summer from the land,
Taking the air with sweetness—'tis the coast
Of far Bohemia, a fairy-strand!
Oh set not foot thereon, or thou art lost—
A great Magician there doth ready stand,
And all his spells upon thee will exhaust!
Dull freightage of mere mortal hopes and fears,
But costly merchandise, to unknown spheres,
The Muse's lands—with sun and stars more fair,
And groves elysian—few voyáge there—
Yet still, to some great soul, that land uprears
Its forehead, glorious, from the deep, who steers
His course forthright its wonders to declare!
Soft comes the breath of summer from the land,
Taking the air with sweetness—'tis the coast
Of far Bohemia, a fairy-strand!
Oh set not foot thereon, or thou art lost—
A great Magician there doth ready stand,
And all his spells upon thee will exhaust!
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Oh let me land: let Fiction bind me fast—
There are the footsteps of dear Perdita!
The music of the earth doth follow her—
And on the common ground still, where she past,
The shadow of her loveliness is cast—
The Air, her sweeter lips' sweet messenger,
Is perfumed still: and, like a loiterer,
Lingers around the spot she trod on last!
O Muse, still let me sail with thee: and let
That land be called Bohemia, or what
Thou wilt, though never wave its shores did wet.
Thou canst make Truth out of that which is not,
And Fiction in the place of Truth canst set,
Yet make Truth more when most it seems forgot!
There are the footsteps of dear Perdita!
The music of the earth doth follow her—
And on the common ground still, where she past,
The shadow of her loveliness is cast—
The Air, her sweeter lips' sweet messenger,
Is perfumed still: and, like a loiterer,
Lingers around the spot she trod on last!
O Muse, still let me sail with thee: and let
That land be called Bohemia, or what
Thou wilt, though never wave its shores did wet.
Thou canst make Truth out of that which is not,
And Fiction in the place of Truth canst set,
Yet make Truth more when most it seems forgot!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |