Beauties of the mind, a poetical sketch :: :: University of Virginia Library

—“In vain do men
The Heavens of their fortune's fault accuse,
Since they know best what is the best for them;
For they to each such fortune do diffuse,
As they do know each can most aptly use;
For not that which men covet most is best,
Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse;
But fittest is, that all contented rest
With what they hold; each has his fortune in his breast.”
SPENSER.

I

The morn was in the eastern heavens glowing,
And like the love-toned music of a dream
Was heard the clear, cool stream,
Beneath the odorous shade of cedars flowing;
And richer than a myriad rainbows lay
Flowers on the Monarch's way.

II

In sunny paths pavilions rose, inviting
His dainty limbs to their delicious shade,
Where fragrant couches, made
Of costly silks and blossoms, more delighting
Than ever fairy queen in slumber prest,
Allured to balmy rest!

III

The palace walls in marble beauty shining,
The ancient grandeur of the sculptur'd dome
Seemed formed for regal home!—
Around the columns roses grew entwining
Their graceful leaves—and soft vermilion bloom—
Their richness and perfume.

IV

And, oh! the walks—so wild, romantic, lonely,—
They looked the work of some enchanter's hand,
Who blessed the golden land
With love, and happiness, and beauty only—
Bidding the clouds and storms of heaven float
To seas and shores remote.

V

Yes, here!—the King exclaimed, with nought appearing
To mar the eager reign of youth and bliss;
Oh! in a land like this,
My soul might breathe—nor care, nor sorrow feeling!—
Save for that sad and solemn whisper nigh,
Which tells me—I must die!

VI

That spectre of the mind—that rock suspended
As by a withering hair above my head
To whelm me with the dead!
'Tis that dark dread alone, which never ended,
Shrouds all my feelings in a deep despair,
And haunts me every where.

VII

Fearless of death, how beautiful and holy
My hours would glide in this ambrosial spot;
With but, to share my lot,
One precious, faithful girl, who loved me solely!—
Oh! if there Genii be—as some declare—
Hear ye!—and grant my prayer!

VIII

Red burned the sky—the blast, in passion sweeping
The forest boughs, like war's artillery roared;
Lightnings, for ages stored,
Appeared in liquid flame the landscape steeping,—
When forth the Genius of the wave and wood
Before the Monarch stood.

IX

Pale as a distant cloud in moonlight sailing,
Glimmer'd his awful figure o'er the plain,
While, like an organ strain,
Arose his voice in sweet and plaintive wailing;
And in his cold and glittering hand of bone,
A crystal mirror shone.

THE GIFT.

In the hall of the Genii your prayer has been granted
And swift with this magical mirror I came.
When that day shall arrive which is blest as you wanted,
Break the Glass, and your hours will smile ever the same!
Yet, beware that the time be not rashly selected,
Or wild are the torments the Gift may create:
Be all, but the day you deem happy, rejected!
Choose, wisely, O Mortal! or dire is thy fate!

X

Bright as a golden shield the vault is gleaming—
The land is wreathed in oriental bloom:—
The terror and the gloom
Are faded like a vision of our dreaming—
Leaving one only record of the hour,
The glass of magic power.

XI

Years have elapsed—and many a treasured token
Lies buried with the heart that gave it birth—
Yet lives the King on earth;
And yet remains the magic glass unbroken.
Alas! hath not one happy day smiled high
Of all the years gone by?

XII

Not one!—Not one of all the thousands perished
To use the splendid gift, and breathe in joy?—
No!—each had some alloy!—
And vain grew every hope his bosom cherished;
There came no single day of all the past,
He wished might ever last.

XIII

And now, within his regal chamber lying,
In heavy pain the Monarch draws his breath;
Feeling the hand of death,
And trembling in the horrid fear of dying,
He grasps the charmed mirror—ah!—'tis o'er!—
Its fragments strew the floor!

XIV

Long, long, 'tis said, the wretched man lay groaning
Under the curse of never-ending pain.
And long—and long in vain—
He wept and prayed—for his foul crime atoning!—
But ages vanished ere the spell past by,
And left the King to die.