 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ODE TO PSYCHE.
Let not a sigh be breathed, or he is flown!
With tiptoe stealth she glides, and throbbing breast,
Towards the bed, like one who dares not own
Her purpose to herself, yet cannot rest
From her rash essay: in her trembling hand
She bears a lamp, which sparkles on a sword:
In the dim light she seems a wandering dream
Of loveliness: 'tis Psyche and her Lord,
Her yet unseen, who slumbers like a beam
Of moonlight, vanishing as soon as scann'd!
With tiptoe stealth she glides, and throbbing breast,
Towards the bed, like one who dares not own
Her purpose to herself, yet cannot rest
From her rash essay: in her trembling hand
She bears a lamp, which sparkles on a sword:
In the dim light she seems a wandering dream
Of loveliness: 'tis Psyche and her Lord,
Her yet unseen, who slumbers like a beam
Of moonlight, vanishing as soon as scann'd!
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One moment, and all bliss hath fled her heart;
She with her eyes the vision will dispel,
And break the dreamy charm no magic art
Can e'er replace; alas! we learn full well
How beautiful the Past but to deplore!
While, with seal'd eyes, we hurry to the brink,
Blind as the waterfall; oh stay thy feet,
Thou rash one: let thine eye not covet more
Of bliss than thy heart feels, nor vainly think
That sight will make thy vision more complete!
She with her eyes the vision will dispel,
And break the dreamy charm no magic art
Can e'er replace; alas! we learn full well
How beautiful the Past but to deplore!
While, with seal'd eyes, we hurry to the brink,
Blind as the waterfall; oh stay thy feet,
Thou rash one: let thine eye not covet more
Of bliss than thy heart feels, nor vainly think
That sight will make thy vision more complete!
Onward she glides, and, gliding, doth infuse
Her beauty into the dim air, that fain
Would dally with it: and, as the faint hues
Flicker around, her charmëd eye-balls strain,
For there he lies, in dreamy loveliness!
Softly she steals towards him, and bends o'er
His eyes sleep-curtained, as a lily droops
Faint o'er a folded rose: one meek caress
She would, but dares not, take: and, as she stoops,
A drop fell from the lamp she, trembling, bore.
Her beauty into the dim air, that fain
Would dally with it: and, as the faint hues
Flicker around, her charmëd eye-balls strain,
For there he lies, in dreamy loveliness!
Softly she steals towards him, and bends o'er
His eyes sleep-curtained, as a lily droops
Faint o'er a folded rose: one meek caress
She would, but dares not, take: and, as she stoops,
A drop fell from the lamp she, trembling, bore.
Thereat, sleepfray'd, dreamlike the god takes wing,
And soars to his own skies, while Phyche strives
To clasp his foot, and fain thereon would cling,
But falls insensate; so must he who gives
His love to sensual forms sink still to earth,
Whose soul doth cater to a wanton eye.
Psyche! thou should'st have taken that high gift
Of love as it was meant, that mystery
Had use divine: the Gods do test our worth,
And, ere they grant high boons, our hearts would sift!
And soars to his own skies, while Phyche strives
To clasp his foot, and fain thereon would cling,
But falls insensate; so must he who gives
His love to sensual forms sink still to earth,
Whose soul doth cater to a wanton eye.
Psyche! thou should'st have taken that high gift
Of love as it was meant, that mystery
Had use divine: the Gods do test our worth,
And, ere they grant high boons, our hearts would sift!
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Hadst thou no divine vision of thine own?
Didst thou not see the object of thy love
Clothed with a beauty to mere sense unknown?
And could not that bright Image, far above
The reach of sere decay, content thy thought?
Which with its glory would have wrapp'd thee round,
To the grave's brink, untouched by age or pain!
Alas! we mar what Fancy's womb has brought
Of loveliest forth, and to the narrow bound
Of sense reduce the Helen of the brain!
Didst thou not see the object of thy love
Clothed with a beauty to mere sense unknown?
And could not that bright Image, far above
The reach of sere decay, content thy thought?
Which with its glory would have wrapp'd thee round,
To the grave's brink, untouched by age or pain!
Alas! we mar what Fancy's womb has brought
Of loveliest forth, and to the narrow bound
Of sense reduce the Helen of the brain!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |