"He will come to night," young Mary said,And checked the rising sigh;And gazed on the stars that o'er her headShone out in the deep blue sky."Heaven speed his voyage!—though absent long,The painful vigil's o'er—The skies are clear—the breeze is strong—We meet to part no more!"While yet she spoke a sudden chillO'er her ardent spirit crept;A sad presentiment of ill—She turned away and wept.Far off the sigh of ocean stole—The sweeping of the sounding surge—In plaintive murmurs o'er her soul,Like wailing of a funeral dirge.And in the wind there is a toneWhich whispers to her sinking heart—"Mary we meet in death alone;In realms of bliss no more to part."The moon has sunk in her ocean cave,Fled are the shades of night,And morning bursts on the purple waveIn floods of golden-light.The sudden stroke of the village bellChecks the fisher's blithesome song;He pauses to hear how rock and fellIts sullen tones prolong."Some soul to its last account has sped:Dost thou hear that solemn sound?""'Tis Mary Hume!"—his comrade said—"Last night her love was drowned!"
"He will come to night," young Mary said,And checked the rising sigh;And gazed on the stars that o'er her headShone out in the deep blue sky."Heaven speed his voyage!—though absent long,The painful vigil's o'er—The skies are clear—the breeze is strong—We meet to part no more!"
While yet she spoke a sudden chillO'er her ardent spirit crept;A sad presentiment of ill—She turned away and wept.Far off the sigh of ocean stole—The sweeping of the sounding surge—In plaintive murmurs o'er her soul,Like wailing of a funeral dirge.
And in the wind there is a toneWhich whispers to her sinking heart—"Mary we meet in death alone;In realms of bliss no more to part."The moon has sunk in her ocean cave,Fled are the shades of night,And morning bursts on the purple waveIn floods of golden-light.
The sudden stroke of the village bellChecks the fisher's blithesome song;He pauses to hear how rock and fellIts sullen tones prolong."Some soul to its last account has sped:Dost thou hear that solemn sound?""'Tis Mary Hume!"—his comrade said—"Last night her love was drowned!"
Spirit of eternal motion!Ruler of the stormy ocean,Lifter of the restless waves,Rider of the blast that ravesHoarsely through yon lofty oak,Bending to thy mystic stroke;Man from age to age has soughtThy secret—but it baffles thought!Agent of the Deity!Offspring of eternity,Guider of the steeds of timeAlong the starry track sublime,Founder of each wondrous art,Mover of the human heart;Since the world's primeval dayAll nature has confessed thy sway.They who strive thy laws to findMight as well arrest the wind,Measure out the drops of rain,Count the sands which bound the main,Quell the earthquake's sullen shock,Chain the eagle to the rock,Bid the sun his heat assuage,The mountain torrent cease to rage.Spirit, active and divine—Life and all its powers are thine!Guided by the first great cause,Sun and moon obey thy laws,Which to man must ever beA wonder and a mystery,Known alone to him who gaveThee sovereignty o'er wind and waveAnd only chained thee in the grave!
Spirit of eternal motion!Ruler of the stormy ocean,Lifter of the restless waves,Rider of the blast that ravesHoarsely through yon lofty oak,Bending to thy mystic stroke;Man from age to age has soughtThy secret—but it baffles thought!
Agent of the Deity!Offspring of eternity,Guider of the steeds of timeAlong the starry track sublime,Founder of each wondrous art,Mover of the human heart;Since the world's primeval dayAll nature has confessed thy sway.
They who strive thy laws to findMight as well arrest the wind,Measure out the drops of rain,Count the sands which bound the main,Quell the earthquake's sullen shock,Chain the eagle to the rock,Bid the sun his heat assuage,The mountain torrent cease to rage.Spirit, active and divine—Life and all its powers are thine!Guided by the first great cause,Sun and moon obey thy laws,Which to man must ever beA wonder and a mystery,Known alone to him who gaveThee sovereignty o'er wind and waveAnd only chained thee in the grave!
Oh nature! though the blast is yelling,Loud roaring through the bending tree,There's sorrow in man's darksome dwelling,There's rapture still with thee!I gaze upon the clouds wind-driven,The white storm-crested deep;My heart with human cares is riven—O'er these—I cannot weep.'Tis not the rush of wave or windThat wakes my anxious fears,That presses on my troubled mind,And fills my eyes with tears;I feel the icy breath of sorrowMy ardent spirit chill,The dark—dark presage of the morrow,The sense of coming ill.I hear the mighty billows rave;There's music in their roar,When strong in wrath the wind-lashed waveSprings on the groaning shore;A solemn pleasure in the toneThat shakes the lonely woods,As winter mounts his icy throne'Mid storms and wasting floods.The trumpet of the angry blastPeals loud o'er earth and main;The elemental strife is past,The heavens are bright again.And shall I doubt the healing powerOf Him who lives to save,Who in this dark appalling hourCan silence wind and wave?Almighty Ruler of the storm!One beam of grace display,And the fierce tempests that deformMy soul, shall pass away.
Oh nature! though the blast is yelling,Loud roaring through the bending tree,There's sorrow in man's darksome dwelling,There's rapture still with thee!
I gaze upon the clouds wind-driven,The white storm-crested deep;My heart with human cares is riven—O'er these—I cannot weep.
'Tis not the rush of wave or windThat wakes my anxious fears,That presses on my troubled mind,And fills my eyes with tears;
I feel the icy breath of sorrowMy ardent spirit chill,The dark—dark presage of the morrow,The sense of coming ill.
I hear the mighty billows rave;There's music in their roar,When strong in wrath the wind-lashed waveSprings on the groaning shore;
A solemn pleasure in the toneThat shakes the lonely woods,As winter mounts his icy throne'Mid storms and wasting floods.
The trumpet of the angry blastPeals loud o'er earth and main;The elemental strife is past,The heavens are bright again.
And shall I doubt the healing powerOf Him who lives to save,Who in this dark appalling hourCan silence wind and wave?
Almighty Ruler of the storm!One beam of grace display,And the fierce tempests that deformMy soul, shall pass away.
The spirit of the shower,Of the sunshine and the breeze,Of the dewy twilight hour,Of the bud and opening flower,My soul delighted sees.Stern winter's robe of gray,Beneath thy balmy sigh,Like mist-wreaths melt away,When the rosy laughing dayLifts up his golden eye.—Spirit of ethereal birth,Thy azure banner floats,In lucid folds, o'er air and earth,And budding woods pour forth their mirthIn rapture-breathing notes.I see upon the fleecy cloudThe spreading of thy wings;The hills and vales rejoice aloud,And Nature, starting from her shroud,To meet her bridegroom springs.Spirit of the rainbow zone,Of the fresh and breezy morn,—Spirit of climes where joy aloneFor ever hovers round thy throne,On wings of light upborne,Eternal youth is in thy trainWith rapture-beaming eyes,And Beauty, with her magic chain,And Hope, that laughs at present pain,Points up to cloudless skies.Spirit of love, of life, and light!Each year we hail thy birth—The day-star from the grave of nightThat set to rise in skies more bright,—To bless the sons of earthWith leaf—and bud—and perfumed flower,Still deck the barren sod;In thee we trace a higher power,In thee we claim a brighter dower,The day-spring of our God!—
The spirit of the shower,Of the sunshine and the breeze,Of the dewy twilight hour,Of the bud and opening flower,My soul delighted sees.Stern winter's robe of gray,Beneath thy balmy sigh,Like mist-wreaths melt away,When the rosy laughing dayLifts up his golden eye.—
Spirit of ethereal birth,Thy azure banner floats,In lucid folds, o'er air and earth,And budding woods pour forth their mirthIn rapture-breathing notes.I see upon the fleecy cloudThe spreading of thy wings;The hills and vales rejoice aloud,And Nature, starting from her shroud,To meet her bridegroom springs.
Spirit of the rainbow zone,Of the fresh and breezy morn,—Spirit of climes where joy aloneFor ever hovers round thy throne,On wings of light upborne,Eternal youth is in thy trainWith rapture-beaming eyes,And Beauty, with her magic chain,And Hope, that laughs at present pain,Points up to cloudless skies.
Spirit of love, of life, and light!Each year we hail thy birth—The day-star from the grave of nightThat set to rise in skies more bright,—To bless the sons of earthWith leaf—and bud—and perfumed flower,Still deck the barren sod;In thee we trace a higher power,In thee we claim a brighter dower,The day-spring of our God!—
O come to the meadows! I'll show you wherePrimrose and violet blow,And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,White as the driven snow.I'll show you where the daisies dotWith silver stars the lea,The orchis, and forget-me-not,The flower of memory!The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,That love the river's side,The reed that bows the wave to meet,And sighs above the tide.The stately flag that gaily rearsAloft its yellow crest,The lily in whose cup the tearsOf morn delight to rest.The first in Nature's dainty wreath,We'll cull the brier-rose,The crowfoot and the purple heath,And pink that sweetly blows.The hare-bell with its airy flowersShall deck my Laura's breast,—Of all that bud in woodland bowersI love the hare-bell best!I'll pull the bonny golden broomTo bind thy flowing hair;For thee the eglantine shall bloom,Whose fragrance fills the air.We'll sit beside yon wooded knoll,To hear the blackbird sing,And fancy in his merry trollThe joyous voice of spring!We'll sit and watch the sparkling wavesThat leap exulting by,Whilst in the pines above us ravesThe wind's wild minstrelsy.It swells the echoes of the grove,'Tis Nature's plaintive voice;The winds and waters breathe of love,And all her tribes rejoice.Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours,We'll rove the verdant glade;But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers,Like us, but bloom to fade.They spread their beauties to the sun,And live their little day,Then droop, and wither, one by one,Till all are passed away.Already scattered in the dustMy first May garland lies;The hope that owns a mortal trust,As quickly fades and dies.Then let us seek a brighter wreathThan Nature here has given;The flowers of virtue bud beneath,But only bloom in heaven!
O come to the meadows! I'll show you wherePrimrose and violet blow,And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,White as the driven snow.I'll show you where the daisies dotWith silver stars the lea,The orchis, and forget-me-not,The flower of memory!
The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,That love the river's side,The reed that bows the wave to meet,And sighs above the tide.The stately flag that gaily rearsAloft its yellow crest,The lily in whose cup the tearsOf morn delight to rest.
The first in Nature's dainty wreath,We'll cull the brier-rose,The crowfoot and the purple heath,And pink that sweetly blows.The hare-bell with its airy flowersShall deck my Laura's breast,—Of all that bud in woodland bowersI love the hare-bell best!
I'll pull the bonny golden broomTo bind thy flowing hair;For thee the eglantine shall bloom,Whose fragrance fills the air.We'll sit beside yon wooded knoll,To hear the blackbird sing,And fancy in his merry trollThe joyous voice of spring!
We'll sit and watch the sparkling wavesThat leap exulting by,Whilst in the pines above us ravesThe wind's wild minstrelsy.It swells the echoes of the grove,'Tis Nature's plaintive voice;The winds and waters breathe of love,And all her tribes rejoice.
Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours,We'll rove the verdant glade;But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers,Like us, but bloom to fade.They spread their beauties to the sun,And live their little day,Then droop, and wither, one by one,Till all are passed away.
Already scattered in the dustMy first May garland lies;The hope that owns a mortal trust,As quickly fades and dies.Then let us seek a brighter wreathThan Nature here has given;The flowers of virtue bud beneath,But only bloom in heaven!
When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping,In the silent dust are sleeping;When above my narrow bedThe breeze shall wave the thistle's head—Thou wilt think of me, love!When the queen of beams and showersComes to dress the earth with flowers;When the days are long and bright,And the moon shines all the night—Thou wilt think of me, love!When the tender corn is springing,And the merry thrush is singing;When the swallows come and go,On light wings flitting to and fro—Thou wilt think of me, love!When laughing childhood learns by roteThe cuckoo's oft-repeated note;When the meads are fresh and green,And the hawthorn buds are seen—Thou wilt think of me, love!When 'neath April's rainbow skiesViolets ope their purple eyes;When mossy bank and verdant moundSweet knots of primroses have crowned—Thou wilt think of me, love!When the meadows glitter white,Like a sheet of silver light;When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom,Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom—Thou wilt think of me, love!Each bud shall be to thee a tokenOf a fond heart reft and broken;And the month of joy and gladnessShall but fill thy soul with sadness—And thou wilt sigh for me, love!When thou rov'st the woodland bowers,Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers,And shalt strew with bitter weepingThe lonely bed where I am sleeping—And sadly mourn for me, love!
When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping,In the silent dust are sleeping;When above my narrow bedThe breeze shall wave the thistle's head—Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the queen of beams and showersComes to dress the earth with flowers;When the days are long and bright,And the moon shines all the night—Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the tender corn is springing,And the merry thrush is singing;When the swallows come and go,On light wings flitting to and fro—Thou wilt think of me, love!
When laughing childhood learns by roteThe cuckoo's oft-repeated note;When the meads are fresh and green,And the hawthorn buds are seen—Thou wilt think of me, love!
When 'neath April's rainbow skiesViolets ope their purple eyes;When mossy bank and verdant moundSweet knots of primroses have crowned—Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the meadows glitter white,Like a sheet of silver light;When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom,Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom—Thou wilt think of me, love!
Each bud shall be to thee a tokenOf a fond heart reft and broken;And the month of joy and gladnessShall but fill thy soul with sadness—And thou wilt sigh for me, love!
When thou rov'st the woodland bowers,Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers,And shalt strew with bitter weepingThe lonely bed where I am sleeping—And sadly mourn for me, love!
Young Naiad of the sparry grot,Whose azure eyes before me burn,In what sequestered lonely spotLies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn?Beneath what mossy bank enshrined,Within what ivy-mantled nook,Sheltered alike from sun and wind,Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?Deep buried lies thy airy shellBeneath thy waters clear;Far echoing up the woodland dellThy wind-swept harp I hear.I catch its soft and mellow tonesAmid the long grass gliding,Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones,In hoarse, deep accents chiding.The wandering breeze that stirs the grove,In plaintive moans replying,To every leafy bough aboveHis tender tale is sighing;Ruffled beneath his viewless wingThy wavelets fret and wimple,Now forth rejoicingly they springIn many a laughing dimple.To nature's timid lovely queenThy sylvan haunts are known;She seeks thy rushy margin greenTo weave her flowery zone;Light waving o'er thy fairy floodIn all their vernal pride,She sees her crown of opening budsReflected in the tide.On—on!—for ever brightly on!Thy lucid waves are flowing,Thy waters sparkle as they run,Their long, long journey going;Bright flashing in the noon-tide beamO'er stone and pebble breaking,And onward to some mightier streamTheir slender tribute taking.Oh such is life! a slender rill,A stream impelled by Time;To death's dark caverns flowing still,To seek a brighter clime.Though blackened by the stains of earth,And broken be its course,From life's pure fount we trace its birth,Eternity its source!While floating down the tide of years,The Christian will not mourn her lot;There is a hand will dry her tears,A land where sorrows are forgot.Though in the crowded page of timeThe record of her name may die,'Tis traced in annals more sublime,The volume of Eternity!
Young Naiad of the sparry grot,Whose azure eyes before me burn,In what sequestered lonely spotLies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn?Beneath what mossy bank enshrined,Within what ivy-mantled nook,Sheltered alike from sun and wind,Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?
Deep buried lies thy airy shellBeneath thy waters clear;Far echoing up the woodland dellThy wind-swept harp I hear.I catch its soft and mellow tonesAmid the long grass gliding,Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones,In hoarse, deep accents chiding.
The wandering breeze that stirs the grove,In plaintive moans replying,To every leafy bough aboveHis tender tale is sighing;Ruffled beneath his viewless wingThy wavelets fret and wimple,Now forth rejoicingly they springIn many a laughing dimple.
To nature's timid lovely queenThy sylvan haunts are known;She seeks thy rushy margin greenTo weave her flowery zone;Light waving o'er thy fairy floodIn all their vernal pride,She sees her crown of opening budsReflected in the tide.
On—on!—for ever brightly on!Thy lucid waves are flowing,Thy waters sparkle as they run,Their long, long journey going;Bright flashing in the noon-tide beamO'er stone and pebble breaking,And onward to some mightier streamTheir slender tribute taking.
Oh such is life! a slender rill,A stream impelled by Time;To death's dark caverns flowing still,To seek a brighter clime.Though blackened by the stains of earth,And broken be its course,From life's pure fount we trace its birth,Eternity its source!
While floating down the tide of years,The Christian will not mourn her lot;There is a hand will dry her tears,A land where sorrows are forgot.Though in the crowded page of timeThe record of her name may die,'Tis traced in annals more sublime,The volume of Eternity!
Beautiful flowers! with your petals bright,Ye float on the waves like spirits of light,Wooing the zephyr that ruffles your leavesWith a gentle sigh, like a lover that grieves,When his mistress, blushing, turns awayFrom his pleading voice and impassioned lay.Beautiful flowers! the sun's westward beam,Still lingering, plays on the crystal stream,And ye look like some Naiad's golden shrine,That is lighted up with a flame divine;Or a bark in which love might safely glide,Impelled by the breeze o'er the purple tide.Beautiful flowers! how I love to gazeOn your glorious hues, in the noon-tide blaze,And to see them reflected far belowIn the azure waves, as they onward flow;When the spirit who moves them sighing turnsWhere his golden crown on the water burns.Beautiful flowers! in the rosy westThe sun has sunk in his crimson vest,And the pearly tears of the weeping nightHave spangled your petals with gems of light,And turned to stars every wandering beamWhich the pale moon throws on the silver stream.Beautiful flowers!—yet a little while,And the sun on your faded buds shall smile;And the balm-laden zephyr that o'er you sighedShall scatter your leaves o'er the glassy tide,And the spirit that moved the stream shall spreadHis lucid robe o'er your watery bed.Beautiful flowers! our youth is as briefAs the short-lived date of your golden leaf.The summer will come, and each amber urn,Like a love-lighted torch, on the waves shall burn;But when the first bloom of our life is o'erNo after spring can its freshness restore,But faith can twine round the hoary headA garland of beauty when youth is fled!
Beautiful flowers! with your petals bright,Ye float on the waves like spirits of light,Wooing the zephyr that ruffles your leavesWith a gentle sigh, like a lover that grieves,When his mistress, blushing, turns awayFrom his pleading voice and impassioned lay.
Beautiful flowers! the sun's westward beam,Still lingering, plays on the crystal stream,And ye look like some Naiad's golden shrine,That is lighted up with a flame divine;Or a bark in which love might safely glide,Impelled by the breeze o'er the purple tide.
Beautiful flowers! how I love to gazeOn your glorious hues, in the noon-tide blaze,And to see them reflected far belowIn the azure waves, as they onward flow;When the spirit who moves them sighing turnsWhere his golden crown on the water burns.
Beautiful flowers! in the rosy westThe sun has sunk in his crimson vest,And the pearly tears of the weeping nightHave spangled your petals with gems of light,And turned to stars every wandering beamWhich the pale moon throws on the silver stream.
Beautiful flowers!—yet a little while,And the sun on your faded buds shall smile;And the balm-laden zephyr that o'er you sighedShall scatter your leaves o'er the glassy tide,And the spirit that moved the stream shall spreadHis lucid robe o'er your watery bed.
Beautiful flowers! our youth is as briefAs the short-lived date of your golden leaf.The summer will come, and each amber urn,Like a love-lighted torch, on the waves shall burn;But when the first bloom of our life is o'erNo after spring can its freshness restore,But faith can twine round the hoary headA garland of beauty when youth is fled!
Autumn, thy rushing blastSweeps in wild eddies by,Whirling the sear leaves past,Beneath my feet, to die.Nature her requiem singsIn many a plaintive tone,As to the wind she flingsSad music, all her own.The murmur of the rillIs hoarse and sullen now,And the voice of joy is stillIn grove and leafy bough.There's not a single wreath,Of all Spring's thousand flowers,To strew her bier in death,Or deck her faded bowers.I hear a spirit sighWhere the meeting pines resound,Which tells me all must die,As the leaf dies on the ground.The brightest hopes we cherish,Which own a mortal trust,But bloom awhile to perishAnd moulder in the dust.Sweep on, thou rushing wind,Thou art music to mine ear,Awakening in my mindA voice I love to hear.The branches o'er my headSend forth a tender moan;Like the wail above the deadIs that sad and solemn tone.Though all things perish here,The spirit cannot die,It owns a brighter sphere,A home in yon fair sky.The soul will flee away,And when the silent clodEnfolds my mouldering clay,Shall live again with God;Where Autumn's chilly blastShall never strip the bowers,Or icy Winter castA blight upon the flowers;But Spring, in all her bloom,For ever flourish there,And the children of the tombForget this world of care.—The children who have passedDeath's tideless ocean o'er,And Hope's blest anchor castOn that bright eternal shore;Who sought, through Him who bledTheir erring race to save,A Sun, whose beams shall shedA light upon the grave!
Autumn, thy rushing blastSweeps in wild eddies by,Whirling the sear leaves past,Beneath my feet, to die.Nature her requiem singsIn many a plaintive tone,As to the wind she flingsSad music, all her own.
The murmur of the rillIs hoarse and sullen now,And the voice of joy is stillIn grove and leafy bough.There's not a single wreath,Of all Spring's thousand flowers,To strew her bier in death,Or deck her faded bowers.
I hear a spirit sighWhere the meeting pines resound,Which tells me all must die,As the leaf dies on the ground.The brightest hopes we cherish,Which own a mortal trust,But bloom awhile to perishAnd moulder in the dust.
Sweep on, thou rushing wind,Thou art music to mine ear,Awakening in my mindA voice I love to hear.The branches o'er my headSend forth a tender moan;Like the wail above the deadIs that sad and solemn tone.
Though all things perish here,The spirit cannot die,It owns a brighter sphere,A home in yon fair sky.The soul will flee away,And when the silent clodEnfolds my mouldering clay,Shall live again with God;
Where Autumn's chilly blastShall never strip the bowers,Or icy Winter castA blight upon the flowers;But Spring, in all her bloom,For ever flourish there,And the children of the tombForget this world of care.—
The children who have passedDeath's tideless ocean o'er,And Hope's blest anchor castOn that bright eternal shore;Who sought, through Him who bledTheir erring race to save,A Sun, whose beams shall shedA light upon the grave!
The harvest is nodding on valley and plain,To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield;Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain;'Tis ripe to our hand!—to the field—to the field!If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile,Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile.Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray,We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!With his garland of poppies red August is here,And the forest is losing its first tender green;Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year,And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene.To the field!—to the field! whilst the Summer is oursWe will reap her ripe corn—we will cull her bright flowers.Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray,For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies,Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry,Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise,With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply:He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd,And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around.Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray,For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!
The harvest is nodding on valley and plain,To the scythe and the sickle its treasures must yield;Through sunshine and shower we have tended the grain;'Tis ripe to our hand!—to the field—to the field!If the sun on our labours too warmly should smile,Why a horn of good ale shall the long hours beguile.Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray,We have toiled through the heat of the long summer day!
With his garland of poppies red August is here,And the forest is losing its first tender green;Pale Autumn will reap the last fruits of the year,And Winter's white mantle will cover the scene.To the field!—to the field! whilst the Summer is oursWe will reap her ripe corn—we will cull her bright flowers.Then, a largess! a largess! kind stranger, we pray,For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day.
Ere the first blush of morning is red in the skies,Ere the lark plumes his wing, or the dew drops are dry,Ere the sun walks abroad, must the harvestman rise,With stout heart, unwearied, the sickle to ply:He exults in his strength, when the ale-horn is crown'd,And the reapers' glad shouts swell the echoes around.Then, a largess! a largess!—kind stranger, we pray,For your sake we have toiled through the long summer day!
Majestic King of storms! aroundThy wan and hoary browA spotless diadem is boundOf everlasting snow:Time, which dissolves all earthly things,O'er thee hath vainly waved his wings!The sun, with his refulgent beams,Thaws not thy icy zone;Lord of ten thousand frozen streams,That sleep around thy throne,Whose crystal barriers may defyThe genial warmth of summer's sky.What human foot shall dare intrudeBeyond the howling waste,Or view the untrodden solitude,Where thy dark home is placed;In those far realms of death where lightShrieks from thy glance and all is night?The earth has felt thine iron tread,The streams have ceased to flow,The leaves beneath thy feet lie dead,And keen the north winds blow:Nature lies in her winding sheetOf dazzling snow, and blinding sleet.Thy voice has chained the troubled deep;Within thy mighty hand,The restless world of waters sleepOn Greenland's barren strand.Thy stormy heralds, loud and shrill,Have bid the foaming waves lie still.Where lately many a gallant prowSpurned back the whitening spray,An icy desert glitters now,Beneath the moon's wan ray:Full many a fathom deep belowThe dark imprisoned waters flow.How gloriously above thee gleamThe planetary train,And the pale moon with clearer beamChequers the frost-bound plain;The sparkling diadem of nightCircles thy brow with tenfold light.I love thee not—yet when I raiseTo heaven my wondering eyes,I feel transported at the blazeOf beauty in the skies,And laud the power that, e'en to thee,Hath given such pomp and majesty!I turn and shrink before the blastThat sweeps the leafless tree,Careering on the tempest past,Thy snowy wreath I see;But Spring will come in beauty forthAnd chase thee to the frozen north!
Majestic King of storms! aroundThy wan and hoary browA spotless diadem is boundOf everlasting snow:Time, which dissolves all earthly things,O'er thee hath vainly waved his wings!
The sun, with his refulgent beams,Thaws not thy icy zone;Lord of ten thousand frozen streams,That sleep around thy throne,Whose crystal barriers may defyThe genial warmth of summer's sky.
What human foot shall dare intrudeBeyond the howling waste,Or view the untrodden solitude,Where thy dark home is placed;In those far realms of death where lightShrieks from thy glance and all is night?
The earth has felt thine iron tread,The streams have ceased to flow,The leaves beneath thy feet lie dead,And keen the north winds blow:Nature lies in her winding sheetOf dazzling snow, and blinding sleet.
Thy voice has chained the troubled deep;Within thy mighty hand,The restless world of waters sleepOn Greenland's barren strand.Thy stormy heralds, loud and shrill,Have bid the foaming waves lie still.
Where lately many a gallant prowSpurned back the whitening spray,An icy desert glitters now,Beneath the moon's wan ray:Full many a fathom deep belowThe dark imprisoned waters flow.
How gloriously above thee gleamThe planetary train,And the pale moon with clearer beamChequers the frost-bound plain;The sparkling diadem of nightCircles thy brow with tenfold light.
I love thee not—yet when I raiseTo heaven my wondering eyes,I feel transported at the blazeOf beauty in the skies,And laud the power that, e'en to thee,Hath given such pomp and majesty!
I turn and shrink before the blastThat sweeps the leafless tree,Careering on the tempest past,Thy snowy wreath I see;But Spring will come in beauty forthAnd chase thee to the frozen north!
POET.Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrineI lowly bend one simple wreath to twine;O come from thy ideal world and flingThy airy fingers o'er my rugged string;Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earthThe wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth—FANCY.Happiness, when from earth she fled,I passed on her heaven-ward flight,—"Take this wreath," the spirit said,"And bathe it in floods of light;To the sons of sorrow this token give,And bid them follow my steps and live!"I took the wreath from her radiant hand,Each flower was a silver star;I turned this dark earth to a fairy land,When I hither drove my car;But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright,And man only saw its reflected light.Many a lovely dream I've given,And many a song divine,But never—oh never!—that wreath from heavenShall mortal temples twine.Hope and love in the chaplet glow:'Tis all too bright for a world of woe!POET.Hist—Beautiful spirit! why silent so soon?My soul drinks each word of thy magical tune;My lyre owns thy touch, and its tremulous stringsStill vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings!Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part,Thy home, lovely spirit,—and say what thou art.FANCY.The gleam of a star which thou canst not see,Or an eye 'neath its sleeping lid,The tune of a far off melody,The voice of a stream that's hid;Such must I still remain to thee,A wonder and a mystery.I live in the poet's dream,I flash on the painter's eye,I dwell in the moon's pale beam,In the depths of the star-lit sky;I traverse the earth, the air, the main,And bind young hearts in my golden chain.I float on the crimson cloud,My voice is in every breeze,I speak in the tempest loud,In the sigh of the wind-stirred trees;To the sons of earth, in a magic tone,I tell of a world more bright than their own!
POET.
Enchanting spirit! at thy votive shrineI lowly bend one simple wreath to twine;O come from thy ideal world and flingThy airy fingers o'er my rugged string;Sweep the dark chords of thought and give to earthThe wild sweet song that tells thy heavenly birth—
FANCY.
Happiness, when from earth she fled,I passed on her heaven-ward flight,—"Take this wreath," the spirit said,"And bathe it in floods of light;To the sons of sorrow this token give,And bid them follow my steps and live!"
I took the wreath from her radiant hand,Each flower was a silver star;I turned this dark earth to a fairy land,When I hither drove my car;But I wove the wreath round my tresses bright,And man only saw its reflected light.
Many a lovely dream I've given,And many a song divine,But never—oh never!—that wreath from heavenShall mortal temples twine.Hope and love in the chaplet glow:'Tis all too bright for a world of woe!
POET.
Hist—Beautiful spirit! why silent so soon?My soul drinks each word of thy magical tune;My lyre owns thy touch, and its tremulous stringsStill vibrate beneath the soft play of thy wings!Resume thy sweet lay, and reveal, ere we part,Thy home, lovely spirit,—and say what thou art.
FANCY.
The gleam of a star which thou canst not see,Or an eye 'neath its sleeping lid,The tune of a far off melody,The voice of a stream that's hid;Such must I still remain to thee,A wonder and a mystery.
I live in the poet's dream,I flash on the painter's eye,I dwell in the moon's pale beam,In the depths of the star-lit sky;I traverse the earth, the air, the main,And bind young hearts in my golden chain.
I float on the crimson cloud,My voice is in every breeze,I speak in the tempest loud,In the sigh of the wind-stirred trees;To the sons of earth, in a magic tone,I tell of a world more bright than their own!
I have dreamed sweet dreams of a summer night,When the moon was walking in cloudless light,And my soul to the regions of Fancy sprung,While the spirits of air their soft anthems sung,Strains wafted down from those heavenly spheresWhich may not be warbled in waking ears;More sweet than the voice of waters flowing,Than the breeze over beds of violets blowing,When it stirs the pines, and sultry dayFans himself cool with their tremulous play.On the sleeper's ear those rich notes stealing,Speak of purer and holier feelingThan man in his pilgrimage here below,In the bondage of sin, can ever know.I heard in my slumbers the ceaseless roarOf the sparkling waves, as they met the shore,Till lulled by the surge of the moon-lit deep,By the heaving ocean I sank to sleep.And a magic spell on my spirit was cast,And forms that had perished in ages past,Were by Fancy revealed to my wondering view,As the veil of Oblivion she backward drew,And showed me a glorious vision, dressedIn the rosy light of the glowing west.Such colours at parting the day-god throws,To gild his path, as rejoicing he goes,Like a victor red with the spoils of fight,To raise through darkness the banner of light!Slowly and soothingly stole on my earStrains such as spirits in ecstasy hear,When they tune their harps at the jasper throneOf eternal light, with its rainbow zone;And the harmony drawn from those living stringsGushes forth from the fountain whence music springs;But those songs divine, of heavenly birth,Are seldom repeated to sons of earth.Such sounds as I heard by that summer seaWere never produced by man's minstrelsy;Which rose and sank by the billowy motionOf the breaking wave and the heaving ocean:Now borne on the night-breeze was wafted high,Through the glowing depths of the star-lit sky;Now mournfully wailing, like plaintive dirge,Rushed to the shore, with the rush of the surge.And I saw a figure, all radiantly bright,Float over the waves in the pale moonlight;She moved to the notes of a magical song,And the billows scarce murmured that bore her along;The winds became mute—and the snowy wreath,That crested the billows, looked dim beneathHer silvery feet—that as lightly trodThe heaving deep, as the emerald sod.A garland of coral her temples bound,And her glittering robes floated lightly round,Veiling her form in a shadowy shroud,Like the mist that hangs on the morning cloud,Ere the sun dispels, with his rising beam,The vapours exhaled from the marshy stream.The breeze wafted back from her forehead fairHer long flowing tresses of shining hair,Which cast on her features a lambent glow,Like a halo encircling her brow of snow;Revealing a face of such faultless mouldAs that sea-born goddess possessed of old,The morning she rose from the purple tide,The queen of beauty and joy's fair bride—But her cheek was as pale as the ocean sprayEre it catches a flush from the rosy day;And the shade of a deathless grief was there,Which spake more of ages than years of care;As though she had borne, since the world began,Every sorrow and trial that waits upon man.Such was the shadow that haunted my dream;Such was the figure that rose from the stream;And I felt a strange and electric thrillOf unearthly delight my bosom fill,As she neared the shore, and I heard the strainThat charmed into silence the listening main.Child of the earth! behold in meThe desolate spirit of things that were:I keep Oblivion's iron key,Far, far below in the pathless sea,Where never a sound from the upper airIs heard in those realms where, in darkness hurled,Lie the shattered domes of the ancient world!A thousand ages have slowly rolledO'er temple and tower and fortress strong,By the giant kings possessed of old,That buried beneath the waters cold,Only echo the mermaids' plaintive song,When they weep o'er the form of some child of clay,'Mid the wreck of a world that has passed away.The spirits of earth and air have sighedTo traverse those halls, in vain;The rolling waters those ruins hide,And buried beneath the oozy tide,They sleep in my icy chain;And if thou canst banish all mortal dread,Thou shalt view that world of the mighty dead.—Far over the breast of the waters wideThat song's plaintive cadence in distance died,And I heard but the tremulous, mournful sweepOf the night-winds ruffling the azure deep!—
I have dreamed sweet dreams of a summer night,When the moon was walking in cloudless light,And my soul to the regions of Fancy sprung,While the spirits of air their soft anthems sung,Strains wafted down from those heavenly spheresWhich may not be warbled in waking ears;More sweet than the voice of waters flowing,Than the breeze over beds of violets blowing,When it stirs the pines, and sultry dayFans himself cool with their tremulous play.On the sleeper's ear those rich notes stealing,Speak of purer and holier feelingThan man in his pilgrimage here below,In the bondage of sin, can ever know.
I heard in my slumbers the ceaseless roarOf the sparkling waves, as they met the shore,Till lulled by the surge of the moon-lit deep,By the heaving ocean I sank to sleep.And a magic spell on my spirit was cast,And forms that had perished in ages past,Were by Fancy revealed to my wondering view,As the veil of Oblivion she backward drew,And showed me a glorious vision, dressedIn the rosy light of the glowing west.Such colours at parting the day-god throws,To gild his path, as rejoicing he goes,Like a victor red with the spoils of fight,To raise through darkness the banner of light!
Slowly and soothingly stole on my earStrains such as spirits in ecstasy hear,When they tune their harps at the jasper throneOf eternal light, with its rainbow zone;And the harmony drawn from those living stringsGushes forth from the fountain whence music springs;But those songs divine, of heavenly birth,Are seldom repeated to sons of earth.Such sounds as I heard by that summer seaWere never produced by man's minstrelsy;Which rose and sank by the billowy motionOf the breaking wave and the heaving ocean:Now borne on the night-breeze was wafted high,Through the glowing depths of the star-lit sky;Now mournfully wailing, like plaintive dirge,Rushed to the shore, with the rush of the surge.
And I saw a figure, all radiantly bright,Float over the waves in the pale moonlight;She moved to the notes of a magical song,And the billows scarce murmured that bore her along;The winds became mute—and the snowy wreath,That crested the billows, looked dim beneathHer silvery feet—that as lightly trodThe heaving deep, as the emerald sod.A garland of coral her temples bound,And her glittering robes floated lightly round,Veiling her form in a shadowy shroud,Like the mist that hangs on the morning cloud,Ere the sun dispels, with his rising beam,The vapours exhaled from the marshy stream.The breeze wafted back from her forehead fairHer long flowing tresses of shining hair,Which cast on her features a lambent glow,Like a halo encircling her brow of snow;Revealing a face of such faultless mouldAs that sea-born goddess possessed of old,The morning she rose from the purple tide,The queen of beauty and joy's fair bride—But her cheek was as pale as the ocean sprayEre it catches a flush from the rosy day;And the shade of a deathless grief was there,Which spake more of ages than years of care;As though she had borne, since the world began,Every sorrow and trial that waits upon man.
Such was the shadow that haunted my dream;Such was the figure that rose from the stream;And I felt a strange and electric thrillOf unearthly delight my bosom fill,As she neared the shore, and I heard the strainThat charmed into silence the listening main.
Child of the earth! behold in meThe desolate spirit of things that were:I keep Oblivion's iron key,Far, far below in the pathless sea,Where never a sound from the upper airIs heard in those realms where, in darkness hurled,Lie the shattered domes of the ancient world!
A thousand ages have slowly rolledO'er temple and tower and fortress strong,By the giant kings possessed of old,That buried beneath the waters cold,Only echo the mermaids' plaintive song,When they weep o'er the form of some child of clay,'Mid the wreck of a world that has passed away.
The spirits of earth and air have sighedTo traverse those halls, in vain;The rolling waters those ruins hide,And buried beneath the oozy tide,They sleep in my icy chain;And if thou canst banish all mortal dread,Thou shalt view that world of the mighty dead.—
Far over the breast of the waters wideThat song's plaintive cadence in distance died,And I heard but the tremulous, mournful sweepOf the night-winds ruffling the azure deep!—