The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON A QUIET SUMMER-EVENING, BY THE SEA. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ON A QUIET SUMMER-EVENING, BY THE SEA.
The wind, that now scarce stirs upon the rose
Its lightest leaf, and, like a roseleaf, now
Before it sweeps the oak, with humbled brow,
Breathes like a sleeping child! all things compose
Themselves to stillness: 'tis as Day would close
His eyes in peace, and this vexed Earth allow
A breathing-pause: and closed them musing how
To rise in fresher beauty from repose!
Lo! o'er yon' hill he takes a last, brief look,
Upkindling once more, like a poet's eye,
Who has read things divine in some old book!
And, oh! has he not done so verily?
From the first glance which through morn's gates he took,
To this, now, like a flower, closing silently!
Its lightest leaf, and, like a roseleaf, now
Before it sweeps the oak, with humbled brow,
Breathes like a sleeping child! all things compose
Themselves to stillness: 'tis as Day would close
His eyes in peace, and this vexed Earth allow
A breathing-pause: and closed them musing how
To rise in fresher beauty from repose!
Lo! o'er yon' hill he takes a last, brief look,
Upkindling once more, like a poet's eye,
Who has read things divine in some old book!
And, oh! has he not done so verily?
From the first glance which through morn's gates he took,
To this, now, like a flower, closing silently!
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Oh! has he from more than a book not read,
However old, howe'er poetical!
However grand and deep, and full of all
That's wonderful, more than was ever said
Or sung, by all the living and the dead!
In Epic breadth more than Homerical,
In grace Bucolic more than Pastoral,
And more than all in all things: more than head
E'er thought or heart e'er felt! Oh yes, he has!
He has read glorious things from morn to eve,
In that grand volume where a blade of grass
Might make a poet thoughts divine conceive!
And, as he sinks, his Maker now doth glass
His glory in him, and His image leave!
However old, howe'er poetical!
However grand and deep, and full of all
That's wonderful, more than was ever said
Or sung, by all the living and the dead!
In Epic breadth more than Homerical,
In grace Bucolic more than Pastoral,
And more than all in all things: more than head
E'er thought or heart e'er felt! Oh yes, he has!
He has read glorious things from morn to eve,
In that grand volume where a blade of grass
Might make a poet thoughts divine conceive!
And, as he sinks, his Maker now doth glass
His glory in him, and His image leave!
Yes, like the eye of God, that orb doth shine,
With a last look of love and blessedness,
On Earth, who, like a queen, in summer's dress,
Sits by the mighty Ocean, and doth twine
Fresh flowers in her hair, his bride divine;
On whose green lap, with murmurous caress,
He lays his azure brows, while she doth press
Her flowery lips to his, fresh from the brine!
Yes, like the eye of God, so calm and clear,
It takes a lingering look of this fair scene,
And sees that all is good, as it has been,
And ever will be; while, to be read ne'er
Again, another page divine turns ere
It sinks, but still the last word, “God,” is seen!
With a last look of love and blessedness,
On Earth, who, like a queen, in summer's dress,
Sits by the mighty Ocean, and doth twine
Fresh flowers in her hair, his bride divine;
On whose green lap, with murmurous caress,
He lays his azure brows, while she doth press
Her flowery lips to his, fresh from the brine!
Yes, like the eye of God, so calm and clear,
It takes a lingering look of this fair scene,
And sees that all is good, as it has been,
And ever will be; while, to be read ne'er
Again, another page divine turns ere
It sinks, but still the last word, “God,” is seen!
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Still, like the grand “Amen” of the last line,
By hand divine inscribed! while soft the lid
Of darkness closes o'er Day's eye, and, hid,
Its glance of love no more on earth doth shine!
But on the forehead of dim Night, a sign
Not to be misinterpreted, amid
The starry scrolls in which 'tis set, to guide
And cheer, 't will head another page divine!
On which all Heaven, with its countless eyes
Fixed ever, gazes, while the spheres around,
Like choiristers, go hymning through the skies,
And filling the vast temple with their sound!
Till the new morn takes up their harmonies,
A fresh-turned page of Being to expound!
By hand divine inscribed! while soft the lid
Of darkness closes o'er Day's eye, and, hid,
Its glance of love no more on earth doth shine!
But on the forehead of dim Night, a sign
Not to be misinterpreted, amid
The starry scrolls in which 'tis set, to guide
And cheer, 't will head another page divine!
On which all Heaven, with its countless eyes
Fixed ever, gazes, while the spheres around,
Like choiristers, go hymning through the skies,
And filling the vast temple with their sound!
Till the new morn takes up their harmonies,
A fresh-turned page of Being to expound!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |