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Tasso and the Sisters

Tasso's Spirit: The Nuptials of Juno: The Skeletons: The Spirits of the Ocean. Poems, By Thomas Wade

Wade, Thomas (1805-1875)

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TASSO AND THE SISTERS:

TASSO'S SPIRIT:

SCENE I.

II.

SCENE II.

THE NUPTIALS OF JUNO.

THE SKELETONS.

THE SPIRITS OF THE OCEAN:

CANTO I.

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II.

CANTO II.

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CANTO I.

The song—the song!—it was warbled by lips
Sweet as whatever the honey-bee sips—
And where?
By the Sea—by the Sea—for no region can be
So fit for a Spirit divine, as the Sea—
Play-ground of the winds, the limitless place
Where they love the white foam of the billows to chase—
'Twas there.
But the song—the song!—by a Spirit 'twas sung,
And these the wild notes o'er the waters that rung:

“Far distant strains of music sounded
Along the weltering Sea;
Old Ocean from his slumber bounded,
Swept forth the winds in glee:
The tempest-spirits shouted loud
And call'd their dull clouds from the deep;—
The clouds appear'd and threw their shroud
Across the moon, with dark'ning sweep.

The stars look'd mad, and shrunk behind
The black veil of the cloudy sky;
The thunder mingled with the wind,
And the wild lightning laugh'd on high:
And a vast meteor cleft the air,
Swiftly hurrying on its way,
Displaying by its sullen glare
The darkness it could not allay:
And music beautiful was flowing
Around the meteor, as it sped,
Until it paus'd and hover'd, glowing,
Bright o'er a rock's majestic head.

“Sing to the winds! Its light was shining
Over an infant Child asleep;
Nor could the winds and waves, combining,
Break on its placid slumbers deep.
Calm was its rest as the tears which lie
In eyes by young love lighted;
Still as the joy sweet sounds supply
To hearts by sorrow blighted;
Mute as the leaves of April gay
Lie, when the winds in caves repose;
As air, when o'er the sunny Day
The waves of Ocean gently close:
It slept upon its rugged pillow,
Among the sea-beat rocks,
And dampness, rising from the billow,
Bedew'd its auburn locks.

“Sing to the winds! That Infant slept,
More calm than other calm things are;
Nor heard the winds that round it swept,
Nor the fierce thunder's voice afar:

But louder still than winds e'er blew
Was heard a voice of sadness;
O'er the wide Ocean Spirits flew,
And lash'd the waves to madness:—
Both long and loud the voice of woe,
And deep the silence that ensued;—
The winds awhile forgot to blow,
Awhile the billows were subdued:
But soon they re-assum'd their wrath,
And that sad voice broke forth again,
And thro' the Ocean's watery path
Pass'd a white steed with flowing mane.
And on his back the Courser bore
A Master of immortal race;—
A Spirit of the Sea, who wore
Eternal sorrow on his face.

“Sing to the winds! The snorting steed
Dash'd thro' the waves with fiery speed;—
And where he came they roll'd aside,
As if he ruled their raging tide:
He neigh'd in answer to their roar;
He shook his mane—they foam'd the more.
And proudly now the steed drew on
To where the burning meteor shone;
The rock was gain'd, submissive grown,
The Steed his graceful neck bent down,
His mane upon the billows spread
And let them idly lave his head.
The Master spoke a magic word—
By ministers unseen 'twas heard,
And airy forms of Sprites, that dwell
On rocks and plains invisible,

Throng'd o'er the Infant, without number,
To watch him waking from his slumber:
He woke—and stretch'd his little hands
Unto those gay, fantastic bands,
Who gently rais'd him in their arms,
Delighted with his infant charms,
And, with songs of sweetest mirth,
Slowly bore him from the earth;
The spreading meteor o'er the whole
In semblance of a halo stole,
As if the Moon, in darkness hid,
In kind concern had deign'd to bid
The wondrous ring which oft around
Her pathway in the skies is found
To circle that melodious throng
And light them in their course along.

“Sing to the winds! The meteor's ray
And the gay Sprites have pass'd away;
The Steed dash'd onward as before,
And still his gloomy Master bore,
Beneath whose eye and on whose breast
The Infant was again at rest,
Unheeding in its tranquil sleep
Of the loud tumult of the Deep.

“As the weapon of the quiver,
When flying from the bow;
As a light bark down a river,
Whose waters briskly flow;
As a bird that seeks the dwelling
Where its little ones repose;
As a torrent, quickly swelling,
Foaming down a mountain goes:—

So swiftly dash'd the milk-white Steed
Thro' the wide waters in his speed,
Until he reached the distant wave
From whence he first had risen,
Then a loud snort the Courser gave
And sought his former prison—
Down—down he sank—the waters wild
Clos'd o'er the Spirit, Steed and Child.

“And oft the Dwellers of Ocean sung
To that sweet Boy,—
And he would listen and lend his tongue
To words of joy.
In sparkling caves,
Beneath the waves,
They laid him among the gems of the Sea—
And saw him smile
And look the while
More lovely than ever a gem could be.

“Sing to the winds! That Infant now
Hath manhood written on his brow;
And darker tints o'erspread his hair;
His eyes are dark—his forehead fair;—
And he hath gather'd from his Sire
A Spirit's might, a Spirit's fire,
And knowledge of all things that live
Beyond what mortal lips can give:
He reads the language which the skies
Display before unearthly eyes,
And all the mysteries that dwell
On Earth, or in the Ocean's cell.

Sing to the winds! the Spirit's Child
Is, as his Father, skill'd and wild.”

Such was the song.—But whose the tongue
From which the varied music sprung?
The voice was a Spirit's—but not of the sky;
Nor of grotto, nor vale where merry ouphes lie:
She dwelt not on mountain, she dwelt not in wood,
Nor in murmuring rill, nor in river's bright flood:—
Oh! where to that Spirit of beauty was given
A dwelling, if neither on Earth, nor in Heaven?
She dwelt in the glittering caves of the Deep,
And oft on the foam of the billows would sleep,—
And the billows she slept on appear'd, as they roll'd,
Like the clouds of the air, when all border'd with gold—
She dwelt in the Ocean—a Spirit as bright
As ever yet smil'd in the regions of light.
Scarce had the Spirit clos'd her song,
When from the waters rose a sound,
And words mysterious flow'd along
The billows as they wander'd round:—
And, at the words, a rush of wings,
Loud as the voice of countless springs
On pebbles playing,
Past o'er the Sea, and heavenly sighs,
With tears, cast down from unseen eyes,
Thro' air were straying.
Then a faint splash spread far and wide
O'er all the bosom of the tide;—
Like that we hear by rural pool.
Whene'er across its waters cool

Glad birds their way are winging;
Now all disporting in a ring,
Now dipping in the pool their wing,
And now again upspringing.
Ye marvel, perchance, why so swiftly flew
Such numberless wings at the words that were said?
Oh! well the sad Spirits of Ocean knew
'Twas lowly to worship a young Maiden dead:—
And all that had stray'd
From their watery dwelling—
On mountain-tops laid,
Or the black clouds compelling;
On the winds mounted high,
In forest shade sleeping;
Or on tall trees that sigh
Their wakeful couch keeping,—
Their revels destroy'd and their sweet slumber broken,—
All swiftly return'd as those wild words were spoken.
And deeply, deeply down the Sea
They hurried onward mournfully:—
They past o'er cities which the wave
Had folded in its boundless grave,
And look'd on many a lonely hall
That once rang loud with festival,
And chambers, now in ruins sunk,
Where Beauty smil'd and Love grew drunk:
They saw the sea-horse in his lair,
Nor broke upon his slumbers there;
They past the Monster of the Water,
Whilst resting from his work of slaughter;

Leviathans they mark'd reposing;
They saw the eyes of dolphins closing,
And view'd each lesser tribe that dwells
In Ocean, sleeping in its cells;—
From its fierce lords a moment free—
Those Tyrants of the billow'd Sea.
A palace stands bright
On the wide waters' bed,
Enveloped in light
From ten thousand gems shed:
Its roof is of pearl,
With rare diamonds bestrown,
And coral-wreaths curl
Round its pillars of stone,
More precious than yet
Ever shone 'neath the eyes
Of Beauty, and set
With the ruby's bright dies:
Each cornice and frieze
Is with silver bedight;
Its architraves please
With their porphyry bright:
Of gold is its base,
And its portals display
More charms than the face
Of the sunniest day;—
For on them are trac'd
Forms, of wild love that tell,
In bright purple, rais'd
From the murex' small shell;

In red tints that come
From the Insects of Ind,
Whose dwelling and tomb
Is the thick web they wind;
In yellow and blue,
Intermingled with green,
And ev'ry bright hue
'Neath the vast billows seen.

“The Gum-Lucca (used in dyeing red) is produced by a very minute insect, which fixes itself on the juicy ends of the branches of particular trees, and is glued to the spot where it settles by a clear thick liquid which exudes from its body, the gradual accumulation of which forms it a complete cell, which becomes its tomb and the birth-place of its young.” Vide Robertson's India.

Here slumbers in a dreamful sleep
A Goddess of some fountain deep;
Whilst o'er her gleams a mortal eye,
Enchanted with her symmetry!
Above, a Giant-form appears,
His furrow'd cheek bedew'd with tears;—
And in his eye a mighty grief
Sits, as disdainful of relief.
A young girl, as the lily pale
That whitens in the midnight gale
The glorious moon beneath,
Hangs on his breast and strives to calm
His spirit by that nameless charm
Which, breath'd from woman's eye and voice,
Might make the dying heart rejoice
And worship even in death!

Far to the right are sylphs, adorning
Their hair with golden flowers,—
Fresh as the blossoms of the Morning,
When dew-drops greet the hours:
And children are disporting round
A lake, where white swans live,
And seem as listening to the sound
Its sparkling waters give.
These, and the charms of mountain, lea,
Of valley, wave and lawn,
Deck those bright portals of the sea,
In radiant colors drawn:—
A Spirit's cunning each display'd—
A Spirit's hand their beauty made.
Hark! a melancholy song
Thro' the water flows along,
Warbled by Sprites that stand before
The Ocean-palace' glittering door:—
The notes are wild and sad the strain,
And this the music of the main:

“Maiden! Maiden!—thou wast fair
As is the light
That revels bright
Within the stars, when all alone
They commune on Night's ebon throne,
Nor sun, nor moon is there.

“Maiden! Maiden!—when the Moon
Rolls full and high
Along the sky,
A blue flame round her orb doth cling;
But thy young eyes outshone that ring,
And faded, ah! as soon.

“Maiden! Maiden!—flutes by night,
When heard afar
Beneath each star,
Sound soft and sweet and beautiful;—
But thy young voice could sooner lull,
And was as gayly light.

“Maiden! Maiden!—thy young face
Once wore the dress
Of loveliness;
But youth, nor beauty decks thee now,
For cold is thine unrivall'd brow
And faded all thy grace.

“Maiden! Maiden!—Spirits kneel
In grief to thee,
Beneath the Sea;
And as the waters o'er them swell,
Their radiant tears in silence tell
The thousand woes they feel.”

Such were the mournful words that flow'd
From lips divinely rare,
As round the dome those Spirits stood,
And watch'd its portals fair;
Which, as the plaintive song was sung,
Apart were slowly, gently swung;
And, as they oped, their hinges threw
Strange music on the waters blue,
Which join'd its altering notes to those
That from the throng of Spirits rose:—
One sound would speak of hope betray'd,
The next of beauty's bloom decay'd;

And then a note would rise that told
Of passion wreck'd and love grown cold,
And as it floated on the tide
Each mournful Spirit deeply sigh'd:
Anon, the music in its strain
Told of despair's undying pain,
Of youth and glory doom'd to die,
And heave the wild and bitter sigh
Of Hope's expiring agony:
Then chang'd the notes that told of madness
To those more gentle and less wild,
Warbling of sorrow's speechless sadness,
Of feelings desolate, yet mild;—
But tho' the music varied ever
In each melodious flow,
It told of joy's bland tumults never—
Its sounds were all of woe:—
Tho' loud they rise, tho' gently fall,
A note of sadness runs thro' all.
Widely apart the portals spread,
Whose hinges now no longer shed
Their music on the murmuring Sea,
As wild as music e'er may be;—
But all was stillness, and a light,
Dim as the hues that herald night,
(Those tints crepuscular, obscure
Which to mute thought the gazer lure)
Within, without its shade o'ercast,
And o'er the Ocean's bosom past,—
And all was stirless as the flowers
Of Flora's most sequestered bowers.
Wide ope the portals—Who, with brow
Betokening an undying woe,

Sits there in silence and in gloom,
Aye musing on his changeless doom?
'Tis he—the Rider of the Steed,
The ruler of his fiery speed:
He sits upon a lofty seat,
With countless gems beneath his feet;
Within his eye and o'er his face
As dark a sorrow still hath place
As when he past along the Deep
To wake the Infant from its sleep,
And bore the smiling babe away
Far, far beneath the Ocean-spray.
—And who is he that near him stands,
Attendant on his mute commands,
With eyes that hold as wild a glow
As lightning on the sky can throw,—
With glossy hair, and lips, whose form
Tell that their owner's soul is warm?—
'Tis he—the Child, who late was borne
Along the mighty Ocean's track,
From summit of tall rock forlorn,
Upon the milk-white Courser's back;—
Now waxed to that tumultuous age,
When Passion opes her burning page,
Bids reckless Youth its words admire
And catch a portion of their fire.
As oft upon a Winter's-night
The heavens are black—the stars are bright,—
Tho' dark his eye and dark the hues
That o'er his face their shade transfuse,
Within, within there lurks a spirit
Which oft doth mirthful mood inherit,

Stealing across each wilder throb
Of passion, that hath power to rob
The bosom of its joyous dress,
And turn it to a wilderness.
But who is the Maiden that sits in the hall
Of that Palace of Ocean, the palest of all?
Without motion, or life, and appearing alone
Some statue cut out from a half-livid stone?
Without or a smile, or a beauty to cheer?
Whence came she? await, and ye quickly shall hear,
On an emerald throne, drest in glittering state
And by splendor surrounded, that dead Maiden sate:
Her pale brow was adorn'd with a crown of pure gold,
Where the ruby and topaz were seen to unfold
Their beautiful glories, whose radiance might vie
With the colors of earth—the rich tints of the sky,
When the Lord of the Daylight is hiding his car
In the breast of the waters wild, flowing afar:
A necklace of amber, as bright as was ever
By the Heliads shed over stream of a river,
Glow'd on her shrunk bosom and rendered its chill,
Fix'd paleness sepulchral more death-seeming still,
As flowers that are dying more desolate seem
When fresh verdure round them in beauty doth gleam.
A robe of light azure encircled each limb,
Which made her dull eyes look more ghastly and dim;
And rings of rare price from her withering finger
Seem'd falling, as if all unwilling to linger
Where tints of young blood to their brightness could add
No beauty, and where e'en their splendor look'd sad:
But still o'er her eyes and her face and her neck
Of loveliness rare might be traced the pale wreck,

And the hair that escap'd from her glittering crown,
And far as the gem-cover'd pavement flow'd down,
Still kept its rich colors, all glossy and bright,
O'ersprinkled with ringlets, divine to the sight:—
It seem'd as if Death from his whole prey forbore
To make the half-ruin his horrors shew more;
Or else, ere the work of destruction was done,
The Tyrant bewail'd at the ruin begun;—
Then suddenly ceas'd the fair form to devour,
And left it a mark of his pity and power!
The word was spoken—to the ground
Each Spirit that stood weeping round
Bent sorrowful and slow:
Again arose that music wild,
And lowly down the Master's Child
Inclin'd his lofty brow;
Whilst the sad Parent, speechless, gaz'd
On eyes that could no more be rais'd;—
And as he looked, a long-drawn sigh
Betray'd his bosom's agony,—
To think the faded form he view'd
Was once with loveliness endued,
Whose coral lip and azure eye
Could make the rudest gazer sigh;—
To think that she, who, when the moon
Made night more beautiful than noon,
So lov'd to mark its radiance fair
And watch her rival of the air,
Whilst ever flow'd the notes along
Of Fancy's wildly-warbled song,
To think that lov'd and loveliest maid,
So oft upon his bosom laid,

Who seem'd commission'd from the skies
To bear to Earth a Paradise,—
Like rainbows should have past away,—
As beautiful, but frail as they!
Oh, Woman! mortal as thou art,
Supreme thy triumph o'er the heart!
Thine eye and cheek and magic lip
(Where bees might well their honey sip)
Make man forget his soul was given
To worship a far different Heaven:—
Nor Man alone—for we are told,
In Chronicles of days of old
And many a Bard's romantic story,
That Gods have left their seats of glory
And scoff'd at Heaven's immortal rest,
To languish on a Maiden's breast:—
And wisely scoff'd—for earth, nor sky
Hath charms that may with woman's vie,
When beauty brightens o'er her form
And youth makes all her feelings warm!
Return, my Muse!—The Spirits knelt,
But worshipp'd not with praise, or pray'r;
Sad sighs and tears told all they felt,
And silence—near akin to care:—
And all look'd sorrowful—save one—
'Twas he-the Master's only Son:
Tho' long and low he stoop'd beneath
The crown which deck'd a brow of death,
There was a laughter in his eye,
Wild as the stars thro' heaven that fly,

Showing strange thoughts, and plainly telling
With love, with love his heart was swelling;—
And, whilst he humbly bent the knee
To that pale Maiden of the Sea,
A smile upon his kindling cheek,
(For smiles can eloquently speak)
Told that, altho' his form inclin'd
In worship there, his chainless mind
Had taken to her wings divine,
And bow'd before a lovelier shrine.
Then rose a Spirit, at a bound,
From off the pearl-besprinkled ground,
(Pearls that made the earth appear
Beauteous as a mirror clear!)
And, with her tresses, swept away
The tears that on her eyelids lay;
With voice harmonious silence broke,
And these the gentle words she spoke:

“Spirits of Ocean's boundless Realm!
Whose glories the blue waves o'erwhelm;—
Sisters of the murmuring Deep!
Where ye, do your revels keep,
Let my words anew destroy
Thoughts of pleasure, dreams of joy;
Nor haste to gambol o'er the waves,
But mourn within your Ocean-caves!—
And do not smile, oh! Offspring young,
From sire immortal proudly sprung;
But let my tale thy sorrows move,
And learn that it is grief to love:—

Tho' bright the Sun—his fierce beam kills,
And love is death, howe'er it thrills!

“The thistle's down now decks the plain,
And now upon the winds is riding;
Now to the earth 'tis dash'd again,
And now again thro' air is gliding:—
And thus, by turns, I fall and rise,—
Now touch the earth, and now the skies;
This moment—and the air's my dwelling,
With all the winds around me swelling;
Another—and I'm downward driven
Swifter than ever light from heaven:—
And over land and over sea
I oft do hurry joyfull,
To gaze on all that beauteous is
And smile on Lovers as they kiss;
And I have watch'd o'er forms as bright
As stars that sleep on lap of Night,
With eyes to charm, with lips to bless,
And radiant with loveliness;
But never saw I one so fair
As she who sits a ruin there;—
Tho' thousands were divine and tall,
Young Zora look'd the Queen of all!

“And the Spirit supreme—the proud Lord of the Ocean
Bent down to that Maiden in lowly devotion,—
As the green laurel bows to the bright Sun for ever,
And tires of its undying worshipping never.
Full oft when the young Morn came smiling in light,
And earth and the air were all beauteous and bright;
When glad birds exulting rose high on the wing
To welcome the coming delicious of Spring,

Whose meekly-eyed flowers were around seen to rise
And breathe all their sweets to the unclouded skies;
When the Sun hurried forth and array'd in his beams
Each hill and each vale, with their murmuring streams;
Kiss'd Ocean's calm billows, as gayly they roll'd,
And turn'd, as enamour'd, their white foam to gold;
When the amorous winds were careering in air,
And robbing the flowers of their fragrancy rare,
And glad Nature, smiling, o'er Heav'n and o'er Earth
Threw her garment of beauty, her sounds of sweet mirth;—
I have seen the proud Spirit that young Maiden greet,
And defraud her red lips of long kisses most sweet.

“And oft they wander'd, side by side,
On Earth and 'neath the waters wide;
And the great Spirit's Courser bore
His lov'd one, thro' the billow's roar,
Unto the Ocean-palace, gleaming
With mimic stars for ever beaming;
And where she now looks cold and pale,—
A ruin for perpetual wail—
I've seen her smile in garments proud,
And paid her homage warm and loud:—
Then to the earth the Steed again
Would bear her fearless o'er the main;—
(For the wild waves ne'er dar'd to harm
The form that could their Ruler charm)
And as she press'd his snow-like back,
And gently grasp'd his bridle slack,
Beauteous she look'd as Dian's car,
When thron'd on stainless clouds afar.

“Weep, Spirits! weep.—Ah, me! that death
Should rob the fairest form of breath!

That all must sicken, all must die
That lingers in mortality!
The happy birds, with all their songs,
Must fall and sing no more;
The glittering waters sportive throngs
Must moulder on the shore;
The rural things of grove and field
Their beauty to decay must yield,
And the gay dress of hill and vale
Must wither in the wintry gale:—
For all must sicken, all must die
That lingers in mortality!
And even she, upon whose breast
A glorious Spirit lov'd to rest,
Expir'd in all her matchless bloom,
And cloth'd a Spirit's soul in gloom.
Her charms decay'd not one by one,
Till youth and beauty all were done;
No wrinkle ever cleft her cheek,
Nor tints of grey were seen to streak
The brightness of her glossy hair:
In youth, in bloom the Maiden died,
And the last breath her sweet lips sigh'd
Was breath'd from form as ever fair.

“Oh! weep, Spirits, weep—'Twas the burial night
Of that beauty of earth, and no stars lent their light
To the dome of the sky; but a mantle was there
Right fit to o'ershadow a scene of despair:
It seem'd that the Heav'ns had been robb'd of their mirth
By the woe that o'erclouded a portion of earth,

And that all the bright stars from their thrones had been taken,—
The blue field of their wand'rings destroyed and forsaken,—
That they might not profane, by their revelry glad,
A midnight so solemn, a moment so sad,
When the pale wreck of beauty was brought to the grave,—
Of beauty belov'd by the Lord of the Wave.
'Twas the burial night:—and the silence around
Was broken alone by a sorrowful sound:
That sound was the wailing of those who pursued
The path that led on to the burial grove;
That wailing arose from the mourners who view'd
The corse of that Maiden of beauty and love.

“And a reverend form, with hoary beard,
The first of the sorrowful throng appear'd;
And behind him there follow'd a matron old,
The pangs of whose bosom may never be told—
(Nor mortal, nor spirit can ever reveal
The woes that a Mother made childless doth feel.)
And then came on four Ethiops tall,
With gloomy eye and forehead stern;
One slowly bore the burial pall,
Another held the burial urn:
And two, on swarthy shoulders, bore
Dead Zora to her funeral pile;
Slowly they follow'd those before,
Nor spoke one mournful word the while.
The bier of the Maiden with white was spread,—
A cushion of white lay under her head;—

And fair flowers around her were scatter'd and dying,
As if sad and unwilling to bloom
Whilst they on the death-bier of Beauty were lying
And perfuming the way to her tomb.
Behind the bier four maidens came;—
Each maiden bore a torch's flame,
Which all around its red beams threw
And gave the mournful throng to view.
And lastly came a beauteous crowd
Of children, that were weeping loud;—
Their laps were fill'd with herb and flower,
Which round their little fingers cast;
And ceaseless fell the fragrant shower,
As slowly on the funeral past.

“'Twas the burial night. The mourners stood
Around a pile of leafless wood:
The Ethiops twain
Had gently lain
The Maiden on its summit high;
And he the pall of death that bore
With careful hand had spread it o'er
Her pallid cheek and rayless eye:
A grave, as deep
As ever sleep
Eternal of still death requires,
Display'd its cavern dark and wide
Beneath the pile, and by its side
The urn of gold
Was plac'd, to hold
The ashes of the funeral fires.

“The deep grave is ope—the bright urn is there;
Around the tall pile the red torches glare:—

A moment hath past—and the pile is on fire,
And swiftly the wild flames mount higher and higher;
They triumph, they rage, as they soar to their prey,
And the sparks they give forth make the darkness look gay.—
I hover'd above, and I hark'd to their sound,
And I sigh'd as they revell'd the dead Maiden round;—
Burning on, burning fiercely, disdaining control,—
For I thought on despair, when it withers the soul!

“Hark!—a voice sublime and strange
Assails each unexpecting ear;
Its words are wild—but soon they change
To those that it is grief to hear:
The flamen signs him with a sign,
Which he devoutly deems divine;
The children's rosy cheeks turn white;
The maidens tremble with affright;
The Ethiops four their dark eyes raise,
And wond'ring on each other gaze,
Whilst e'en the matron stays her grief
To ponder on those accents brief:—
All marvel whence those sounds could flow
That broke the dreary silence so.

“By the light that shone
In his fiery eye;
By the mournful tone
Of his frequent sigh;
By the gloom of his brow,
As I saw him in air;
By the fetterless flow
Of his dark-waving hair;

By a word and a name
From his pale lips that came;—
I knew, I knew that the Spirit sublime
Had swiftly come, in his own good time,
From Ocean's realms and from Ocean's spray
To bear his lifeless young bride away.—

“Away—away.—The pile burnt on,
But she for whom 'twas rais'd was gone;
The Spirit had resum'd his own,
And ta'en her to his Ocean-throne.
Away-away:—but, as he went,
A signal thro' the air was sent:
I left the mourners far behind,
And rode upon the angry wind—
Which, in its music, seem'd to tell
It lov'd a starless midnight well;—
And all the spirits that reside
And sport upon its pinions wide
Held converse with me on my path,
And whisper'd of the tempest's wrath
Which then was arming in the west,
To rob the air and sea of rest;
To fill the heavens with wild emotion,
And rouse the madness of the Ocean.
I left the Spirits to their mirth,
And lightly stept upon the earth;—
I hurried on, and swiftly trod
O'er flowery path and verdant sod,
And came at length to where repos'd
The Child of Mortal and Immortal;
With eager hand I soon unclos'd
The stately mansion's graceful portal,

And guardian pinions gently kept
Above the Infant as it slept.

“And, oh! 'twas excellent to view
The slumbers of that blooming boy:
A smile that o'er his features grew
Betoken'd a pure dream of joy;
His little hand he rais'd on high,
As if some painted flow'r were nigh
That charm'd his infant sight,
The which he fondly sought to gain,
To tear its rosy leaves in twain
And spoil its beauty bright.
And those who gaz'd upon his face
Might fain have deem'd some sprite of air
Had left her own, her native place
And turn'd her into childhood fair,
To prove how passing sweet the gleams
Of Fancy in an Infant's dreams.

“The hour was come:—with gentle hand,
I blithely rais'd the Infant bland;
Thro' the wide air delighted sped,
And laid it on a tall rock's head—
Then hied away. The Ocean's roar
Hath mingled with my song before.”

The song was sung—And who was she
That warbled so melodiously?
My favorite Spirit—she who sung
Of strains across the waves that rung;
Of Courser proud, and how the Child
Was borne across the waters wild;—

Then sought the Deep. The Ocean's roar
Had mingled with her song before.

The song was sung: the Sprite again
To worship with the rest return'd:—
Rose the great Master's offspring then,
And all his face with fancy burn'd:
His cheeks were flush'd, his eyes were fill'd
With light that love alone can give;
His beating heart with feelings thrill'd
That only rise where love doth live:
He smil'd on all, and with a voice
That made each beauteous breast rejoice—
That every Sprite of woe beguil'd,
Thus Reumon spoke—the Spirit's Child:

“'Twas motion all. The restless Deep
Roll'd onward, as it ne'er could sleep;—
Each billow, with a rushing sound,
Hied towards the blue horizon round,
As if it deem'd 'twas some sweet home
Wherein it might forget to roam,
And there in blissful quiet lie
Upon the bosom of the sky.
The winds had left their tranquil slumbers,
And hurried forth in all their numbers,
Making the peaceful air unstill
And gliding o'er the earth at will;—
They stirr'd the grass of every plain,
Now sunk awhile—then rose again;
Above, around their influence cast
And mov'd the green leaves as they past,
And humble grove and forest proud
Right lowly in their presence bow'd.

Bright streams rejoic'd, and many a fountain
Was sparkling down from every mountain;
And beauteous lake and stately river
Were rippling onward, as for ever.
The Sun was striding on his way,
Surrounded by a mantle gay
Of gaudy clouds, that rose and died
Alternate by his radiant side:
The Moon at distance mov'd along,
Paler than ever, and the throng
Of hidden stars were dancing thro'
The bright, etherial fields of blue,—
All anxious for the sun-set hour,
When they regain their native pow'r,
And strive to make the reign of Night
As the proud Day's divine and bright:
And living things upon the earth
Were gambolling in their wildest mirth;
And birds were sporting in the air
And warbling all their music there:
Across the rivers, o'er the Sea
Light skiffs were gliding merrily,
And ships, with every sail unfurl'd,
Pursued their way from world to world.
'Twas motion all:—the earth and Heaven
Seemed each to restless movemet given.

“And I along the shore was roaming,
To watch the boundless Ocean foaming;
To view the bright beams of the Sun
Exulting o'er the waters run,
And look on all the beauteous strife,
Of Nature, newly sprung to life

Beneath the rosy Morning's eye,
Wide opened in the eastern sky.
I wander'd by a river's brink,
Of beauty and of love to think;
But little deem'd I soon should prove
The power of beauty and of love,
And little thought I soon should view
Th' embodied charms my fancy drew:—
But view I did; for o'er the stream,
Careering in the solar beam,
A light skiff flew, whose silken sail
Right fondly held the passing gale,
As in a prison far more sweet
Than e'er retain'd its pinions fleet:
The oars were golden and the wave
Seem'd proud that things so fair should lave
Their beauty in its sparkling tide,
And glitter o'er its surface wide.

“But whose the form, so rare and young,
That o'er the painted vessel hung?
Whose the red lip, and eye, that shone
Bright as the stream it look'd upon?
Oh! could each fine and thrilling word
That e'er from Spirit's tongue was heard;
Could all the noble thoughts that spring
In minds of Poets as they sing;—
All—all in one mellifluous sound
Commingled be, by skill profound,
It could not tell the matchless grace
That sparkled on that maiden's face,
As o'er the stream the vessel past,
Driven onward by the playful blast.

“Fair Spirits! by your smiles I tell
That ye do guess the sequel well.—
Not far the bark had cut its way
Ere I ador'd that maiden gay,
And gather'd from her lips and brow
A passion that enchanteth now:
At once a mutual flame was caught,
The feelings into phrensy wrought,
And love and rapture fill'd the hours
In verdant groves and rosy bowers.

“Fair Spirits! by your smiles I see
That ye have guess'd my thoughts of glee;—
And, truly, whilst ye sadly paid
Deep homage to that lifeless maid,
And wept, right sorrowful, to trace
The paleness of her faded face,
Where beauty once appear'd divine,
Far merrier reveries were mine:—
For I was musing on the hour
When last with every beauteous flower
I deck'd my Laura's ringlets bright
—With violets blue and roses white;—
And prest her lip, and watch'd her eye,
And hearken'd to her gentle sigh;—
And rapture, love, a world of bliss
Were centred in one glowing kiss!
Rare thoughts, gay Spirits!—tho' the wreck
Of loveliness was nigh to check
My roving fancy;—tho' the Chief
Of the wild Waves was mute for grief,
And matchless eyes were wet the while,—
Despite of all, I could but smile:

Sweet flowers will show that Spring is near,
And smiles betray the thoughts that cheer.”

He spoke: and away, on the bright wings of hope,
Young Reumon hath passed from the dome of the Deep:
The worship is done; the gay portals are ope,
And forth from the palace the fair Spirits sweep;—
With smiles and with tears, thcy all hasten along,
And converse in the sweet notes of beautiful song;
They hie to their revels on earth, or in air,
And give to the light winds their minstrelsy rare.
But where is the Child of the Spirit supreme?
Where now doth his eye in its brilliancy beam?
Oh! wherever 'tis glancing in brightness around;
Wherever the tone of his deep voice may sound;
Wherever his light feet in ecstasy rove;—
'Tis sure by the side of his own lady Love.
But the Lord of the Deep? As the sorrowful willow,
Whose branches bend over some rivulet's bank
And love on its bright stream their verdure to pillow
Till their furthermost leaves become wither'd and dank,
Tho' the current should fail, tho' its freshness should die,
And its smooth bed forsaken all desolate lie,
Still reclines as before and as faithful as ever,
As tho' the lost stream had deserted it never:
The great Spirit thus o'er the dead Maiden hung
As fondly as when her rare beauties were young:—
Tho' the glow of her lip, tho' the bloom of her cheek
And her eyes, whose blue light could a wild language speak,

Were all faded and gone, still the sad Spirit lov'd,
Nor e'er from the side of the dead Maiden mov'd.
And still the fair Sprites of the far-foaming Sea
Would frequent abandon their revels of glee,
And 'mid sounds of strange music, right mournful, tho' sweet,
Would weep as they knelt at the dead Maiden's feet.
Enough of sighs, enough of tears:—
Bring me my favorite lyre that cheers!
Now vanish gloom and vanish sadness;—
Ye plaintive sounds! away, away:—
Give me the harp that speaks of gladness!
I die for a more cheerful lay.
But, as the light strings gayly move,
Still let their music breathe of love;—
Of love, sweet love and woman's eye
And beauty's bloom melodiously.—
Ye musings, hence! that mirth destroy;
I strike the chords that wake to joy!