Oh! many are the beauteous islesUnknown to human eye,That, sleeping 'mid the Ocean-smiles,In happy silence lie.The Ship may pass them in the night,Nor the sailors know what a lovely sightIs resting on the Main;Some wandering Ship who hath lost her way,And never, or by night or day,Shall pass these isles again.There, groves that bloom in endless springAre rustling to the radiant wingOf birds, in various plumage brightAs rainbow-hues, or dawning light.Soft-falling showers of blossoms fairFloat ever on the fragrant air,Like showers of vernal snow,And from the fruit-tree, spreading tall,The richly ripen'd clusters fallOft as sea-breezes blow.The sun and clouds alone possessThe joy of all that loveliness;And sweetly to each other smileThe live-long day—sun, cloud, and isle.How silent lies each shelter'd bay!No other visitors have theyTo their shores of silvery sand,Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee,All hurrying in a joyful bandCome dancing from the sea.How did I love to sigh and weepFor those that sailed upon the deep,When, yet a wondering child,I sat alone at dead of night,Hanging all breathless with delightO'er their adventures wild!Trembling I heard of dizzy shrouds,Where up among the raving cloudsThe sailor-boy must go;Thunder and lightning o'er his head!And, should he fall—O thought of dread!Waves mountain-high below.How leapt my heart with wildering fears,Gazing on savage islandersRanged fierce in long canoe,Their poison'd spears, their war-attire,And plumes twined bright, like wreaths of fire,Round brows of dusky hue!What tears would fill my wakeful eyesWhen some delicious paradise(As if a cloud had roll'dOn a sudden from the bursting sun)Freshening the Ocean where it shone,Flung wide its groves of gold!No more the pining MarinerIn feverish anguish raves,For like an angel, kind and fair,That smiles, and smiling saves,The glory charms away distress,Serene in silent lovelinessAmid the dash of waves.And wouldst thou think it hard to dwellAlone within some sylvan cell,Some fragrant arch of flowers,Raised like a queen with gracious smileIn the midst of this her subject isle,This labyrinth of bowers?Could the fair earth, and fairer skies,Clouds, breezes, fountains, groves,To banish from thy heart suffice,All thought of deeper loves?Or wouldst thou pine thy life away,To kiss once more the blessed rayThat shines in human eyes?What though the clustering roses cameLike restless gleams of magic flame,As if they loved thy feet,To win thee like a summer sprite,With purest touches of delight,To the Fairy Queen's retreat!Oh! they would bloom and wither too,And melt their pearls of radiant dew,Without one look from thee:What pleasure could that beauty give,Which, of all mortal things that live,None but thyself may see?And where are the birds that cheer'd thine eyesWith wings and crests of rainbow dyes,That wont for aye to glideLike sun-beams through the shady bowers,Charming away the happy hoursWith songs of love or pride?Soon, soon thou hatest this Paradise;It seems the soul hath fledThat made it fairer than the skies,And a joyful beauty shedO'er the tremor of the circling wave,That now with restless moans and sighs,Sounds like the dirge-song of the dead,Dim breaking round a grave.But she thou lovest is at thy side,The Island Queen becomes thy bride,And God and Nature sanctify the vow;Air, Earth, and Ocean smile once more,And along the forest-fringed shore,What mirth and music now!What warm and heavenly tints illumeThe land that lately seem'd a tombWhere thou wert left to die!So bathed in joy this earth appearsTo him, who, blind for lingering years,At last beholds the sky.Thy heart was like an untouch'd lyre,Silent as death—Let the trembling wireThe hand that knows its spirit feel;And list! What melting murmurs stealLike incense to the realms above,Such sounds as parted souls might love.And now if a home-bound vessel layAt anchor in yon beauteous bay,'Till the land-breeze her canvass wings should swell,From the sweet Isle thou scarce would'st part,But, when thou didst, thy lingering heartWould sadly say, "Farewell!"In such a fairy Isle now pray'dFitz-Owen and his darling Maid.The setting sun, with a pensive glow,Had bathed their foreheads bending low,Nor ceased their voice, or the breath of their prayer,Till the moonlight lay on the mellow'd air.Then from the leaves they calmly rose,As after a night of calm repose,And Mary lean'd her faceWith a sob of joy on her Lover's breast,Who with kind tones the Maiden press'dIn a holy pure embrace.And gently he kiss'd her tearful eyes,And bade her heart lie still,For there was a power in the gracious skies,To shield their saints from ill.Then, guided by the moon-light pale,They walk'd into a sylvan vale,Soft, silent, warm, and deep;And there beneath her languid head,The silken wither'd leaves he spread,That she might sweetly sleep.Then down he sat by her tender side,And, as she lay, with soft touch driedThe stealing tears she could not hide;Till sleep, like a faint shadow, fellO'er the husht face he loved so well,And smiling dreams were givenTo cheer her heart; then down he laidHis limbs beside the sleeping Maid,In the face of the starry Heaven.Sleep fell upon their wearied soulsWith a power as deep as death,Scarce trembled Mary's floating hairIn her Lover's tranquil breath.In that still trance did sweet thoughts comeFrom the brook, and the glade, and the sky, of home,And the gentle sound of her mother's voiceBade Mary's slumbering soul rejoice.For she in dreams to Wales hath flown,And sits in a cottage of her own,Beneath its sheltering tree:Fitz-Owen's eye is fix'd on hers,While with a bashful smile she stirsBeside her mother's knee.But the rising sun hath pour'd his beamsInto her heart, and broke her dreams;Slowly she lifts her eyes,And, wondering at the change, looks round,Upon that wild enchanted ground,And these delightful skies.Over her Lover's breast she breathesA blessing and a prayer,And gently they stir his sleeping soul,Like the voice of the morning-air.Soon as the first surprise is past,They rise from their leafy bed,As cheerful as the new-woke birdsThat sing above their head.And trusting in the merciful powerThat saved them in that dismal hourWhen the ship sank in the sea,Cheering their souls with many a smile,They walk through the woods of this nameless IsleIn undisturb'd tranquillity.Well might they deem that wizard's wandHad set them down in Fairy-land,Or that their souls some beauteous dream obey'd:They know not where to look or listen,For pools and streams of crystal glistenAbove, around,—embracing like the airThe soft-reflected trees; while every whereFrom shady nook, clear hill, and sunny glade,The ever-varying soul of music play'd;As if, at some capricious thing's command,Indulging every momentary mood,With voice and instrument, a fairy bandBeneath some echoing precipice now stood,Now on steep mountain's rocky battlement,Or from the clouds their blended chorus sent,With jocund din to mock the solitude.They gaze with never-sated eyesOn lengthening lines of flowery dyes,That through the woods, and up the mountains run:Not richer radiance robes the Even,When she ascends her throne in Heaven,Beside the setting sun.Scattering the blossomy gems away,Like the white shower of the Ocean spray,Across their path for ever glide or shootBirds of such beauty, as might leadThe soul to think that magic power decreedSpirits to dwell therein; nor are they mute,But each doth chaunt his own beloved strain,For ever trembling on a natural tune,The heart's emotions seeming so to suit,That the rapt Lovers are desiring soon,That silence never may return again.A chearful welcome these bright creatures sing;And as the Lovers roam from glade to glade,That shine with sunlight, and with music ring,Seems but for them the enchanted island made.So strong the influence of the fairy scene,That soon they feel as if for many a yearIn love and rapture they had linger'd here,While with the beauteous things that once have been,Long, long ago, or only in the mindBy Fancy imaged, lies their native Wales,Its dim-seen hills, and all its streamy vales:Sounds in their souls its rushing mountain-wind,Like music heard in youth, remembered well,But when or where it rose they cannot tell.Delightful woods, and many a cloudless sky,Are in their memory strangely floating by,But the faint pageant slowly melts away,And to the living earth they yieldTheir willing hearts, as if reveal'dIn all its glory on this mystic day.Like fire, strange flowers around them flame,Sweet, harmless fire, breathed from some magic urn,The silky gossamer that may not burn,Too wildly beautiful to bear a name.And when the Ocean sends a breeze,To wake the music sleeping in the trees,Trees scarce they seem to be; for many a flower,Radiant as dew, or ruby polish'd bright,Glances on every spray, that bending lightAround the stem, in variegated bows,Appear like some awakened fountain-shower,That with the colour of the evening glows.And towering o'er these beauteous woods,Gigantic rocks were ever dimly seen,Breaking with solemn grey the tremulous green,And frowning far in castellated pride;While, hastening to the Ocean, hoary floodsSent up a thin and radiant mist between,Softening the beauty that it could not hide.Lo! higher still the stately Palm-trees rise,Checquering the clouds with their unbending stems,And o'er the clouds amid the dark-blue skies,Lifting their rich unfading diadems.How calm and placidly they restUpon the Heaven's indulgent breast,As if their branches never breeze had known!Light bathes them aye in glancing showers,And Silence mid their lofty bowersSits on her moveless throne.Entranced there the Lovers gaze,Till every human fear decays,And bliss steals slowly through their quiet souls;Though ever lost to human kindAnd all they love, they are resign'd:While with a scarce-heard murmur rolls,Like the waves that break along the shore,The sound of the world they must see no more.List! Mary is the first to speak,Her tender voice still tenderer in her bliss;And breathing o'er her silent husband's cheek,As from an infant's lip, a timid kiss,Whose touch at once all lingering sorrow calms,Says, "God to us in love hath givenA home on earth, most like to Heaven,Our own sweetIsle of Palms."And where shall these happy lovers dwell?Shall they seek in the cliffs for some mossy cell?Some wilder haunt than ever hermit knew?Where they may shun the mid-day heat,And slumber in a safe retreat,When evening sheds her dew;Or shall they build a leafy nest,Where they like birds may sport and rest,By clustering bloom preserved from sun and rain,Upon some little radiant moundWithin reach of the freshening soundThat murmurs from the Main?No farther need their footsteps roam:Ev'n where they stand, a sylvan homeSteals like a thought upon their startled sight;For Nature's breath with playful powerHath framed an undecaying bower,With colours heavenly bright.Beyond a green and level lawn,Its porch and roof of roses dawnThrough arching trees that lend a mellowing shade.How gleams the bower with countless dyes!Unwearied spring fresh bloom supplies,Still brightening where they fade.Two noble Palms, the forest's pride,Guarding the bower on either side,Their straight majestic stems to Heaven uprear:There Beauty sleeps in Grandeur's arms,And sheltered there from all alarms,Hath nought on earth to fear.The Dwellers in that lovely bower,If mortal shape may breathe such blessed air,Might gaze on it from morn till evening-hour,Nor wish for other sight more touching fair.Why look abroad? All things are hereDelightful to the eye and ear,And fragrance pure as light floats all around.But if they look—those mystic gleams,The glory we adore in dreams,May here in truth be found.Fronting the bower, eternal woods,Darkening the mountain solitudes,With awe the soul oppress:There dwells, with shadowy glories crown'd,Rejoicing in the gloom profound,The Spirit of the Wilderness.Lo! stretching inward on the right,A winding vale eludes the sight,But where it dies the happy soul must dream:Oh! never sure beneath the sun,Along such lovely banks did runSo musical a stream.But who shall dare in thought to paintYon fairy waterfall?Still moistened by the misty showers,From fiery-red, to yellow soft and faint,Fantastic bands of fearless flowersSport o'er the rocky wall;And ever, through the shrouding spray,Whose diamonds glance as bright as they,Float birds of graceful form, and gorgeous plumes,Or dazzling white as snow;While, as the passing sun illumesThe river's bed, in silent prideSpanning the cataract roaring wide,Unnumbered rainbows glow.But turn around, if thou hast powerTo leave a scene so fair,And looking left-wards from the bower,What glory meets thee there!For lo! the heaven-encircled SeaOutspreads his dazzling pageantry,As if the whole creation were his own,And the Isle, on which thy feet now stand,In beauty rose at his command,And for his joy alone.Beyond his billows rolling bright,The Spirit dares not wing her flight;For where, upon the boundless deep,Should she, if wearied, sink to sleep?Back to the beauteous Isle of PalmsGlad she returns; there constant calmsThe bays, that sleep like inland lakes, invest:Delightful all!—but to your eyes,O blessed Pair! one circlet liesMore fair than all the rest.At evening, through that silent bayWith beating hearts ye steer'd your way,Yet trusting in the guiding love of Heaven;And there, upon your bended knees,To the unseen Pilot of the SeasYour speechless prayers were given.From your bower-porch the skiff beholdThat to this Eden boreYour almost hopeless souls:—how boldIt seems to lie, all danger o'er,A speck amid the fluid goldThat burns along the shore!Five cloudless days have, from the placid deep,In glory risen o'er this refulgent Isle,And still the sun retired to rest too soon;And each night with more gracious smile,Guarding the lovers when they sleep,Hath watch'd the holy Moon.Through many a dim and dazzling glade,They in their restless joy have stray'd,In many a grot repos'd, and twilight cave;Have wander'd round each ocean bay,And gazed where inland waters laySerene as night, and bright as day,Untouch'd by wind or wave.Happy their doom, though strange and wild,And soon their souls are reconciledFor ever here to live, and here to die.Why should they grieve? a constant mirthWith music fills the air and earth,And beautifies the sky.High on the rocks the wild-flowers shineIn beauty bathed, and joy divine:In their dark nooks to them are givenThe sunshine and the dews of Heaven.The fish that dart like silver gleamsAre happy in their rock-bound streams,Happy as they that roam the Ocean's breast;Though far away on sounding wingsYon bird could fly, content he singsAround his secret nest.And shall the Monarchs of this IsleLament, when one unclouded smileHangs like perpetual spring on every wood?And often in their listening soulsBy a delightful awe subdued,God's voice, like mellow thunder, rollsAll through the silent solitude.Five days have fled!—The sun again,Like an angel, o'er the brightening MainUplifts his radiant head;And full upon yon dewy bower,The warm tints of the dawning hourMid warmer still are shed.The sun pours not his light in vainOn them who therein dwell:—a strainOf pious music, through the morning calmWakening unwonted echoes, wildly rings,And kneeling there to Mercy's fane,While flowers supply their incense-balm,At the foot of yon majestic PalmThe Maid her matins sings.It is the Sabbath morn:—since lastFrom Heaven it shone, what awful things have past!In their beloved vessel as it roll'dIn pride and beauty o'er the waves of gold,Then were they sailing free from all alarms,Rejoicing in her scarce-felt motionWhen the ship flew, or slumbering OceanDetain'd her in his arms.Beneath the sail's expanded shade,They and the thoughtless crew together pray'd,And sweet their voices rose above the wave;Nor seem'd it woeful as a strainThat never was to rise again,And chaunted o'er the grave.Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright;And when their hymns were ended,Oh! ne'er in such intense delightHad their rapt souls been blended.Some natural tears they surely owedTo those who wept for them, and fast they flow'd,And oft will flow amid their happiest hours;But not less fair the summer day,Though glittering through the sunny rayAre seen descending showers.But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain,The glory of that morn sustain?Alone amid the WildernessMore touching seem'd the holinessOf that mysterious day of soul-felt rest:They are the first that e'er adoredOn this wild spot their Heavenly Lord,Or gentle Jesus bless'd."O Son of God!"—How sweetly cameInto their souls that blessed name!Even like health's hope-reviving breathTo one upon the bed of death."Our Saviour!"—What angelic graceStole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face,While through the solitude profoundWith love and awe she breath'd that holy sound!Yes! He will save! a still small voiceTo Mary's fervent prayer replied;Beneath his tender care rejoice,On earth who for his children died.Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd,Communion with her God was givenUnto her sinless spirit:—nought he said;But gazing on her with a fearful love,Such as saints feel for sister-souls above,Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid,And dreamt with her of Heaven.Pure were their souls, as infant's breath,Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death.No place for human frailty this,Despondency or fears,Too beautiful the wild appearsAlmost for human bliss.Was love like theirs then given in vain?And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight?Or shall that God, who on the mainHath bound them with a billowy chain,Approve the holy rite,That, by their pious souls alonePerform'd before his silent throneIn innocence and joy,Here, and in realms beyond the grave,Unites those whom the cruel waveCould not for grief destroy?No fears felt they of guilt or sin,For sure they heard a voice withinThat set their hearts at rest;They pass'd the day in peaceful prayer,And when beneath the evening airThey sought again their arbour fair,A smiling angel met them there,And bade their couch be blest.Nor veil'd the Moon her virgin-light,But, clear and cloudless all the night,Hung o'er the flowers where love and beauty lay;And, loth to leave that holy bower,With lingering pace obey'd the powerOf bright-returning day.And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms,To make it happy as those Isles of rest(When eve the sky becalmsLike a subsiding sea)That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous west,All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,The setting sun's last lingering pageantry!Hath Fancy ever dreamt of seraph-PowersWalking in beauty through these cloud-framed bowers,Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?And hath she ever paused to hear,By moonlight brought unto her ear,Their hymnings wild and sweet?Lo! human creatures meet her viewAs happy, and as beauteous too,As those aërial phantoms!—in their mien,Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seenAll foreign to this utter solitude,Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide,As erst in Grecian Isle had beautifiedThe guardian Deities of Grove and Flood.Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive,And mortal like the flowers that round them smile?Or if into the Ocean sank their IsleA thousand fathoms deep—would they survive,—Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings,And while, to chear their airy voyage, singsWith joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd longOn earth, might glide, then re-assume their sway,And from the gratulating throngOf kindred spirits, drink the inexpressive song?Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem,Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,Their beauty mellowing in the checquered light,Than, years ago, on that resplendent night,When yielded up to an unearthly dream,In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas.Aye! years ago!—for in this temperate clime,Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of timeFloat through the fragrance of the sunny air;One little month seems scarcely gone,Since in a vessel of their ownAt eve they landed there.Their bower is now a stately bower,For, on its roof, the loftiest flowerTo bloom so lowly grieves,And up like an ambitious thingThat feareth nought, behold it springTill it meet the high Palm-leaves!The porch is opening seen no more,But folded up with blossoms hoar,And leaves green as the sea,And, when the wind hath found them out,The merry waves that dancing routMay not surpass in glee.About their home so little art,They seem to live in Nature's heart,A sylvan court to holdIn a palace framed of lustre green,More rare than to the bright Flower QueenWas ever built of old.Where are they in the hours of day?—The birds are happy on the spray,The dolphins on the deep,Whether they wanton full of life,Or, wearied with their playful strife,Amid the sunshine sleep.And are these things by Nature blestIn sport, in labour, and in rest,—And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprestWith languor or with pain?No! with light glide, and chearful song,Through flowers and fruit they dance along,And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throngThrough their romantic reign.The wild-deer bounds along the rock,But let him not yon hunter mock,Though strong, and fierce, and fleet;For he will trace his mountain-path,Or else his antler's threatening wrathIn some dark winding meet.Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume,Though on yon leafy tree it bloomLike a flower both rich and fair:Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow,To save from his unerring bow;The arrow finds thee there.Dark are the caverns of the wave,Yet those, that sport there, cannot save,Though hidden from the day,With silvery sides bedropt with gold,Struggling they on the beach are roll'dO'er shells as bright as they.Their pastimes these, and labours too,From day to day unwearied they renew,In garments floating with a woodland grace:Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites,They glide along through new delights,Like health and beauty vying in the race.Yet hours of soberer bliss they know,Their spirits in more solemn flowAt day-fall oft will run,When from his throne, with kingly motion,Into the loving arms of OceanDescends the setting Sun."Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales,Land of my birth, forsaken Wales!Towering from continent or sea,Where is the Mountain like to thee?—The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,—Thou! on whose ever-varying sideThe shadows and the sun-beams glideIn still or stormy weather.Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name?And thine too, of gigantic frame,Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame,Oh! proud ye stand together!And thou, sweet Lake!"—but from its waveShe turn'd her inward eye,For near these banks, within her grave,Her Mother sure must lie:Weak were her limbs, long, long ago,And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voiceFrom these sad dreams recalHis weeping wife; and deeply chear'dShe soon forgets them all.Or, haply, through delighted tears,Her mother's smiling shade appears,And, her most duteous child caressing,Bestows on her a parent's blessing,And tells that o'er these holy grovesOft hangs the parent whom she loves.How beauteous both in hours like these!Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees,They think of things for which no words are found;They need not speak: their looks expressMore life-pervading tendernessThan music's sweetest sound.He thinks upon the dove-like restThat broods within her pious breast;The holy calm, the hush divine,Where pensive, night-like glories shine;Even as the mighty Ocean deep,Yet clear and waveless as the sleepOf some lone heaven-reflecting lake,When evening-airs its gleam forsake.She thinks upon his love for her,His wild, empassion'd character,To whom a look, a kiss, a smile,Rewards for danger and for toil!His power of spirit unsubdued,His fearlessness,—his fortitude,—The radiance of his gifted soulWhere never mists or darkness roll:A poet's soul that flows for ever,Right onwards like a noble river,Refulgent still, or by its native woodsShaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes.In love and mercy, sure on him had GodThe sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd;Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain;With brightening smiles the Vision hungO'er the rapt poet while he sung,More beauteous from the strain.The songs he pour'd were sad and wild,And while they would have sooth'd a child,Who soon bestows his tears,A deeper pathos in them layThat would have moved a hermit gray,Bow'd down with holy years.One song he had about a ShipThat perish'd on the Main,So woeful, that his Mary pray'd,At one most touching pause he made,To cease the hearse-like strain:And yet, in spite of all her pain,Implored him, soon as he obey'd,To sing it once again.With faultering voice then would he singOf many a well-known far-off thing,Towers, castles, lakes, and rills;Their names he gave not—could not give—But happy ye, he thought, who liveAmong the Cambrian hills.Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms,Full many a lovely layHe sung;—and of two happy spritesWho live and revel in delightsFor ever, night and day.And who, even of immortal birth,Or that for Heaven have left this earth,Were e'er more blest than they?But shall that bliss endure for ever?And shall these consecrated grovesBehold and cherish their immortal loves?Or must it come, the hour that is to severThose whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare?Awful that thought, and, like unto despair,Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill;Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will,But the same fate together let them share;For how could either hope to die resign'd,If God should say, "One must remain behind!"Yet wisely doth the spirit shrinkFrom thought, when it is death to think;Or haply, a kind being turnsTo brighter hopes the soul that mournsIn killing woe; else many an eye,Now glad, would weep its destiny.Even so it fares with them: they wish to liveLong on this island, lonely though it be.Old age itself to them would pleasure give,For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see,Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously,And with a silver voice most wildly sweet,Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet.Are they in truth her parents?—Was her birthNot drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breastOf some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'dWith purest flames, enamour'd of a God,And gave this child to light in realms of rest;Then sent her to adorn these island bowers,To sport and play with the delighted hours,Till call'd again to dwell among the blest?Sweet are such fancies:—but that kindling smileDissolves them all!—Her native isleThis sure must be: If she in Heaven were born,What breath'd into her faceThat winning human grace,Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn?For, like the timid light of infant day,That oft, when dawning, seems to die away,The gleam of rapture from her visage flies,Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes.Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again!And let thy parents live upon the sound;No other music wish they till they die.For never yet disease, or grief, or pain,Within thy breast the living lyre hath found,Whose chords send forth that touching melody.Sing on! Sing on! It is a lovely air.Well could thy mother sing it when a maid:Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade,To list a tune that breathes of nothing there,A tune that by his mountain springs,Beside his slumbering lambkins fair,The Cambrian shepherd sings.The air on her sweet lips hath died,And as a harper, when his tune is play'd,Pathetic though it be, with smiling browHaply doth careless fling his harp aside,Even so regardlessly upstarteth now,With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid,As if, with a capricious gladness,She strove to mock the soul of sadness,Then mourning through the glade.Light as a falling leaf that springsAway before the zephyr's wings,Amid the verdure seems to lieOf motion reft, then suddenlyWith bird-like fluttering mounts on high,Up yon steep hill's unbroken side,Behold the little Fairy glide.Though free her breath, untired her limb,For through the air she seems to swim,Yet oft she stops to look behindOn them below;—till with the windShe flies again, and on the hill-top farShines like the spirit of the evening star.Nor lingers long: as if a sightHalf-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight,In rapid motion, winding stillTo break the steepness of the hill,With leaps, and springs, and outstretch'd arms,More graceful in her vain alarms,The child outstrips the Ocean gale,In haste to tell her wondrous tale.Her parents' joyful hearts admire,Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire,All bright with tiny suns,And the gleamings of the feathery gold,That play along each wavy foldOf her mantle as she runs."What ails my child?" her mother cries,Seeing the wildness in her eyes,The wonder on her cheek;But fearfully she beckons still,Up to her watch-tower on the hill,Ere one word can she speak."My Father! Mother! quickly flyUp to the green-hill top with me,And tell me what you there descry;For a cloud hath fallen from the sky,And is sailing on the sea."They wait not to hear that word again:The steep seems level as the plain,And up they glide with ease:They stand one moment on the heightIn agony, then bless the sight,And drop upon their knees."A Ship!"—no more can Mary say,"A blessed Ship!" and faints away.—Not so the happy sight subduesFitz-Owen's heart;—he calmly viewsThe gallant vessel tossHer prow superbly up and down,As if she wore the Ocean Crown;And now, exulting in the breeze,With new-woke English pride he seesSt George's blessed Cross.Behold them now, the happy three,Hang up a signal o'er the sea,And shout with echoing sound,While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss,The child prints many a playful kissUpon their hands, or, mad with glee,Is dancing round and round.Scarce doth the thoughtless infant knowWhy thus their tears like rain should flow,Yet she must also weep;Such tears as innocence doth shedUpon its undisturbed bed,When dreaming in its sleep.And oft, and oft, her father pressesHer breast to his, and bathes her tresses,Her sweet eyes, and fair brow."How beautiful upon the waveThe vessel sails, who comes to save!Fitting it was that first she shoneBefore the wondering eyes of one,So beautiful as thou.See how before the wind she goes,Scattering the waves like melting snows!Her course with glory fillsThe sea for many a league!—Descending,She stoopeth now into the vale,Now, as more freshly blows the gale,She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.Oh! whither is she tending?She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay;As for her crew, how blest are they!See! how she veers around!Back whirl the waves with louder sound;And now her prow points to the land:For the Ship, at her glad lord's command,Doth well her helm obey."They cast their eyes around the isle:But what a change is there!For ever fled that lonely smileThat lay on earth and air,That made its haunts so still and holy,Almost for bliss too melancholy,For life too wildly fair.Gone—gone is all its loneliness,And with it much of loveliness.Into each deep glen's dark recess,The day-shine pours like rain,So strong and sudden is the lightReflected from that wonder bright,Now tilting o'er the Main.Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,The voice of the evening-gun,The spell of the enchantment broke,Like dew beneath the sun.Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheersOf these delighted mariners,And the loud sound of the oar,As bending back away they pull,With measured pause, most beautiful,Approaching to the shore.For her yards are bare of man and sail,Nor moves the giant to the gale;But, on the Ocean's breast,With storm-proof cables, stretching far,There lies the stately Ship of War;And glad is she of rest.Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away,And leave your bower to flourish and decay,Without one parting tear?Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd,And with your smiling infant play'dFor many a blessed year!No! not in vain that bower hath shedIts blossoms o'er your marriage-bed,Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain,Forgetful of her heavenly reign,On them whose pure and holy blissEven beautified that wilderness.To every rock, and glade, and dell,You now breathe forth a sad farewell."Say! wilt thou ever murmur onWith that same voice when we are gone,Beloved stream!—Ye birds of light!And in your joy as musical as bright,Still will you pour that thrilling strain,Unheard by us who sail the distant main?We leave our nuptial bower to you:There still your harmless loves renew,And there, as they who left it, blest,The loveliest ever build your nest.Farewell once more—for now and ever!Yet, though unhoped-for mercy severOur lives from thee, where grief might come at last;Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms,Or driven before the blast,Most surely shall our spirits neverForget the Isle of Palms.""What means the Ship?" Fitz-Owen cries,And scarce can trust his startled eyes,"While safely she at anchor swings,Why doth she thus expand her wings?She will not surely leave the bay,Where sweetly smiles the closing day,As if it tempted her to stay.O cruel Ship! 'tis even so:No sooner come than in haste to go.Angel of bliss! and fiend of wo!"——"Oh! let that God who brought her here,My husband's wounded spirit chear!Mayhap the ship for months and yearsHath been among the storms, and fearsYon lowering cloud, that on the waveFlings down the shadow of a grave;For well thou know'st the bold can beBy shadows daunted, when they sail the sea.Think, in our own lost Ship, when o'er our headWalk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light,How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dreadOn her, the glory of the innocent night,As if in those still hours of heavenly joy,They saw a spirit smiling to destroy.Trust that, when morning brings her light,The sun will shew a glorious sight,This very Ship in joy returningWith outspread sails and ensigns burning,To quench in bliss our causeless mourning."—"O Father! look with kinder eyesOn me,"—the Fairy-infant cries."Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad,At times when I was gay and glad,These are not like thy other sighs.But that I saw my Father grieve,Most happy when yon thing did leaveOur shores, was I:—Mid waves and wind,Where, Father! could we ever findSo sweet an island as our own?And so we all would think, I well believe,Lamenting, when we look'd behind,That the Isle of Palms was gone."Oh blessed child! each artless toneOf that sweet voice, thus plaintivelyBreathing of comfort to thyself unknown,Who feelest not how beautiful thou art,Sinks like an anthem's pious melodyInto thy father's agitated heart,And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own.A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face,And thou, rejoicing once again to hearThe voice of love so pleasant to thine ear,Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn,Bounding along like a sportive fawn,With laugh and song renew'st thy devious race;Or round them, like a guardian sprite,Dancing with more than mortal grace,Steepest their gazing souls in still delight.For how could they, thy parents, seeThy innocent and fearless glee,And not forget, but one short hour ago,When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was their woe?—Most like a dream it doth appear,When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here:—A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone,Was surely passing-sweet:—now it is gone,Not worth one single tear.
Oh! many are the beauteous islesUnknown to human eye,That, sleeping 'mid the Ocean-smiles,In happy silence lie.The Ship may pass them in the night,Nor the sailors know what a lovely sightIs resting on the Main;Some wandering Ship who hath lost her way,And never, or by night or day,Shall pass these isles again.There, groves that bloom in endless springAre rustling to the radiant wingOf birds, in various plumage brightAs rainbow-hues, or dawning light.Soft-falling showers of blossoms fairFloat ever on the fragrant air,Like showers of vernal snow,And from the fruit-tree, spreading tall,The richly ripen'd clusters fallOft as sea-breezes blow.The sun and clouds alone possessThe joy of all that loveliness;And sweetly to each other smileThe live-long day—sun, cloud, and isle.How silent lies each shelter'd bay!No other visitors have theyTo their shores of silvery sand,Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee,All hurrying in a joyful bandCome dancing from the sea.
How did I love to sigh and weepFor those that sailed upon the deep,When, yet a wondering child,I sat alone at dead of night,Hanging all breathless with delightO'er their adventures wild!Trembling I heard of dizzy shrouds,Where up among the raving cloudsThe sailor-boy must go;Thunder and lightning o'er his head!And, should he fall—O thought of dread!Waves mountain-high below.How leapt my heart with wildering fears,Gazing on savage islandersRanged fierce in long canoe,Their poison'd spears, their war-attire,And plumes twined bright, like wreaths of fire,Round brows of dusky hue!What tears would fill my wakeful eyesWhen some delicious paradise(As if a cloud had roll'dOn a sudden from the bursting sun)Freshening the Ocean where it shone,Flung wide its groves of gold!No more the pining MarinerIn feverish anguish raves,For like an angel, kind and fair,That smiles, and smiling saves,The glory charms away distress,Serene in silent lovelinessAmid the dash of waves.
And wouldst thou think it hard to dwellAlone within some sylvan cell,Some fragrant arch of flowers,Raised like a queen with gracious smileIn the midst of this her subject isle,This labyrinth of bowers?Could the fair earth, and fairer skies,Clouds, breezes, fountains, groves,To banish from thy heart suffice,All thought of deeper loves?Or wouldst thou pine thy life away,To kiss once more the blessed rayThat shines in human eyes?What though the clustering roses cameLike restless gleams of magic flame,As if they loved thy feet,To win thee like a summer sprite,With purest touches of delight,To the Fairy Queen's retreat!Oh! they would bloom and wither too,And melt their pearls of radiant dew,Without one look from thee:What pleasure could that beauty give,Which, of all mortal things that live,None but thyself may see?And where are the birds that cheer'd thine eyesWith wings and crests of rainbow dyes,That wont for aye to glideLike sun-beams through the shady bowers,Charming away the happy hoursWith songs of love or pride?Soon, soon thou hatest this Paradise;It seems the soul hath fledThat made it fairer than the skies,And a joyful beauty shedO'er the tremor of the circling wave,That now with restless moans and sighs,Sounds like the dirge-song of the dead,Dim breaking round a grave.
But she thou lovest is at thy side,The Island Queen becomes thy bride,And God and Nature sanctify the vow;Air, Earth, and Ocean smile once more,And along the forest-fringed shore,What mirth and music now!What warm and heavenly tints illumeThe land that lately seem'd a tombWhere thou wert left to die!So bathed in joy this earth appearsTo him, who, blind for lingering years,At last beholds the sky.Thy heart was like an untouch'd lyre,Silent as death—Let the trembling wireThe hand that knows its spirit feel;And list! What melting murmurs stealLike incense to the realms above,Such sounds as parted souls might love.And now if a home-bound vessel layAt anchor in yon beauteous bay,'Till the land-breeze her canvass wings should swell,From the sweet Isle thou scarce would'st part,But, when thou didst, thy lingering heartWould sadly say, "Farewell!"
In such a fairy Isle now pray'dFitz-Owen and his darling Maid.The setting sun, with a pensive glow,Had bathed their foreheads bending low,Nor ceased their voice, or the breath of their prayer,Till the moonlight lay on the mellow'd air.Then from the leaves they calmly rose,As after a night of calm repose,And Mary lean'd her faceWith a sob of joy on her Lover's breast,Who with kind tones the Maiden press'dIn a holy pure embrace.And gently he kiss'd her tearful eyes,And bade her heart lie still,For there was a power in the gracious skies,To shield their saints from ill.Then, guided by the moon-light pale,They walk'd into a sylvan vale,Soft, silent, warm, and deep;And there beneath her languid head,The silken wither'd leaves he spread,That she might sweetly sleep.Then down he sat by her tender side,And, as she lay, with soft touch driedThe stealing tears she could not hide;Till sleep, like a faint shadow, fellO'er the husht face he loved so well,And smiling dreams were givenTo cheer her heart; then down he laidHis limbs beside the sleeping Maid,In the face of the starry Heaven.
Sleep fell upon their wearied soulsWith a power as deep as death,Scarce trembled Mary's floating hairIn her Lover's tranquil breath.In that still trance did sweet thoughts comeFrom the brook, and the glade, and the sky, of home,And the gentle sound of her mother's voiceBade Mary's slumbering soul rejoice.For she in dreams to Wales hath flown,And sits in a cottage of her own,Beneath its sheltering tree:Fitz-Owen's eye is fix'd on hers,While with a bashful smile she stirsBeside her mother's knee.But the rising sun hath pour'd his beamsInto her heart, and broke her dreams;Slowly she lifts her eyes,And, wondering at the change, looks round,Upon that wild enchanted ground,And these delightful skies.Over her Lover's breast she breathesA blessing and a prayer,And gently they stir his sleeping soul,Like the voice of the morning-air.Soon as the first surprise is past,They rise from their leafy bed,As cheerful as the new-woke birdsThat sing above their head.And trusting in the merciful powerThat saved them in that dismal hourWhen the ship sank in the sea,Cheering their souls with many a smile,They walk through the woods of this nameless IsleIn undisturb'd tranquillity.
Well might they deem that wizard's wandHad set them down in Fairy-land,Or that their souls some beauteous dream obey'd:They know not where to look or listen,For pools and streams of crystal glistenAbove, around,—embracing like the airThe soft-reflected trees; while every whereFrom shady nook, clear hill, and sunny glade,The ever-varying soul of music play'd;As if, at some capricious thing's command,Indulging every momentary mood,With voice and instrument, a fairy bandBeneath some echoing precipice now stood,Now on steep mountain's rocky battlement,Or from the clouds their blended chorus sent,With jocund din to mock the solitude.They gaze with never-sated eyesOn lengthening lines of flowery dyes,That through the woods, and up the mountains run:Not richer radiance robes the Even,When she ascends her throne in Heaven,Beside the setting sun.Scattering the blossomy gems away,Like the white shower of the Ocean spray,Across their path for ever glide or shootBirds of such beauty, as might leadThe soul to think that magic power decreedSpirits to dwell therein; nor are they mute,But each doth chaunt his own beloved strain,For ever trembling on a natural tune,The heart's emotions seeming so to suit,That the rapt Lovers are desiring soon,That silence never may return again.
A chearful welcome these bright creatures sing;And as the Lovers roam from glade to glade,That shine with sunlight, and with music ring,Seems but for them the enchanted island made.So strong the influence of the fairy scene,That soon they feel as if for many a yearIn love and rapture they had linger'd here,While with the beauteous things that once have been,Long, long ago, or only in the mindBy Fancy imaged, lies their native Wales,Its dim-seen hills, and all its streamy vales:Sounds in their souls its rushing mountain-wind,Like music heard in youth, remembered well,But when or where it rose they cannot tell.Delightful woods, and many a cloudless sky,Are in their memory strangely floating by,But the faint pageant slowly melts away,And to the living earth they yieldTheir willing hearts, as if reveal'dIn all its glory on this mystic day.Like fire, strange flowers around them flame,Sweet, harmless fire, breathed from some magic urn,The silky gossamer that may not burn,Too wildly beautiful to bear a name.And when the Ocean sends a breeze,To wake the music sleeping in the trees,Trees scarce they seem to be; for many a flower,Radiant as dew, or ruby polish'd bright,Glances on every spray, that bending lightAround the stem, in variegated bows,Appear like some awakened fountain-shower,That with the colour of the evening glows.
And towering o'er these beauteous woods,Gigantic rocks were ever dimly seen,Breaking with solemn grey the tremulous green,And frowning far in castellated pride;While, hastening to the Ocean, hoary floodsSent up a thin and radiant mist between,Softening the beauty that it could not hide.Lo! higher still the stately Palm-trees rise,Checquering the clouds with their unbending stems,And o'er the clouds amid the dark-blue skies,Lifting their rich unfading diadems.How calm and placidly they restUpon the Heaven's indulgent breast,As if their branches never breeze had known!Light bathes them aye in glancing showers,And Silence mid their lofty bowersSits on her moveless throne.Entranced there the Lovers gaze,Till every human fear decays,And bliss steals slowly through their quiet souls;Though ever lost to human kindAnd all they love, they are resign'd:While with a scarce-heard murmur rolls,Like the waves that break along the shore,The sound of the world they must see no more.List! Mary is the first to speak,Her tender voice still tenderer in her bliss;And breathing o'er her silent husband's cheek,As from an infant's lip, a timid kiss,Whose touch at once all lingering sorrow calms,Says, "God to us in love hath givenA home on earth, most like to Heaven,Our own sweetIsle of Palms."
And where shall these happy lovers dwell?Shall they seek in the cliffs for some mossy cell?Some wilder haunt than ever hermit knew?Where they may shun the mid-day heat,And slumber in a safe retreat,When evening sheds her dew;Or shall they build a leafy nest,Where they like birds may sport and rest,By clustering bloom preserved from sun and rain,Upon some little radiant moundWithin reach of the freshening soundThat murmurs from the Main?No farther need their footsteps roam:Ev'n where they stand, a sylvan homeSteals like a thought upon their startled sight;For Nature's breath with playful powerHath framed an undecaying bower,With colours heavenly bright.Beyond a green and level lawn,Its porch and roof of roses dawnThrough arching trees that lend a mellowing shade.How gleams the bower with countless dyes!Unwearied spring fresh bloom supplies,Still brightening where they fade.Two noble Palms, the forest's pride,Guarding the bower on either side,Their straight majestic stems to Heaven uprear:There Beauty sleeps in Grandeur's arms,And sheltered there from all alarms,Hath nought on earth to fear.
The Dwellers in that lovely bower,If mortal shape may breathe such blessed air,Might gaze on it from morn till evening-hour,Nor wish for other sight more touching fair.Why look abroad? All things are hereDelightful to the eye and ear,And fragrance pure as light floats all around.But if they look—those mystic gleams,The glory we adore in dreams,May here in truth be found.Fronting the bower, eternal woods,Darkening the mountain solitudes,With awe the soul oppress:There dwells, with shadowy glories crown'd,Rejoicing in the gloom profound,The Spirit of the Wilderness.Lo! stretching inward on the right,A winding vale eludes the sight,But where it dies the happy soul must dream:Oh! never sure beneath the sun,Along such lovely banks did runSo musical a stream.But who shall dare in thought to paintYon fairy waterfall?Still moistened by the misty showers,From fiery-red, to yellow soft and faint,Fantastic bands of fearless flowersSport o'er the rocky wall;And ever, through the shrouding spray,Whose diamonds glance as bright as they,Float birds of graceful form, and gorgeous plumes,Or dazzling white as snow;While, as the passing sun illumesThe river's bed, in silent prideSpanning the cataract roaring wide,Unnumbered rainbows glow.
But turn around, if thou hast powerTo leave a scene so fair,And looking left-wards from the bower,What glory meets thee there!For lo! the heaven-encircled SeaOutspreads his dazzling pageantry,As if the whole creation were his own,And the Isle, on which thy feet now stand,In beauty rose at his command,And for his joy alone.Beyond his billows rolling bright,The Spirit dares not wing her flight;For where, upon the boundless deep,Should she, if wearied, sink to sleep?Back to the beauteous Isle of PalmsGlad she returns; there constant calmsThe bays, that sleep like inland lakes, invest:Delightful all!—but to your eyes,O blessed Pair! one circlet liesMore fair than all the rest.At evening, through that silent bayWith beating hearts ye steer'd your way,Yet trusting in the guiding love of Heaven;And there, upon your bended knees,To the unseen Pilot of the SeasYour speechless prayers were given.From your bower-porch the skiff beholdThat to this Eden boreYour almost hopeless souls:—how boldIt seems to lie, all danger o'er,A speck amid the fluid goldThat burns along the shore!
Five cloudless days have, from the placid deep,In glory risen o'er this refulgent Isle,And still the sun retired to rest too soon;And each night with more gracious smile,Guarding the lovers when they sleep,Hath watch'd the holy Moon.Through many a dim and dazzling glade,They in their restless joy have stray'd,In many a grot repos'd, and twilight cave;Have wander'd round each ocean bay,And gazed where inland waters laySerene as night, and bright as day,Untouch'd by wind or wave.Happy their doom, though strange and wild,And soon their souls are reconciledFor ever here to live, and here to die.Why should they grieve? a constant mirthWith music fills the air and earth,And beautifies the sky.High on the rocks the wild-flowers shineIn beauty bathed, and joy divine:In their dark nooks to them are givenThe sunshine and the dews of Heaven.The fish that dart like silver gleamsAre happy in their rock-bound streams,Happy as they that roam the Ocean's breast;Though far away on sounding wingsYon bird could fly, content he singsAround his secret nest.And shall the Monarchs of this IsleLament, when one unclouded smileHangs like perpetual spring on every wood?And often in their listening soulsBy a delightful awe subdued,God's voice, like mellow thunder, rollsAll through the silent solitude.
Five days have fled!—The sun again,Like an angel, o'er the brightening MainUplifts his radiant head;And full upon yon dewy bower,The warm tints of the dawning hourMid warmer still are shed.The sun pours not his light in vainOn them who therein dwell:—a strainOf pious music, through the morning calmWakening unwonted echoes, wildly rings,And kneeling there to Mercy's fane,While flowers supply their incense-balm,At the foot of yon majestic PalmThe Maid her matins sings.It is the Sabbath morn:—since lastFrom Heaven it shone, what awful things have past!In their beloved vessel as it roll'dIn pride and beauty o'er the waves of gold,Then were they sailing free from all alarms,Rejoicing in her scarce-felt motionWhen the ship flew, or slumbering OceanDetain'd her in his arms.Beneath the sail's expanded shade,They and the thoughtless crew together pray'd,And sweet their voices rose above the wave;Nor seem'd it woeful as a strainThat never was to rise again,And chaunted o'er the grave.
Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright;And when their hymns were ended,Oh! ne'er in such intense delightHad their rapt souls been blended.Some natural tears they surely owedTo those who wept for them, and fast they flow'd,And oft will flow amid their happiest hours;But not less fair the summer day,Though glittering through the sunny rayAre seen descending showers.But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain,The glory of that morn sustain?Alone amid the WildernessMore touching seem'd the holinessOf that mysterious day of soul-felt rest:They are the first that e'er adoredOn this wild spot their Heavenly Lord,Or gentle Jesus bless'd."O Son of God!"—How sweetly cameInto their souls that blessed name!Even like health's hope-reviving breathTo one upon the bed of death."Our Saviour!"—What angelic graceStole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face,While through the solitude profoundWith love and awe she breath'd that holy sound!Yes! He will save! a still small voiceTo Mary's fervent prayer replied;Beneath his tender care rejoice,On earth who for his children died.Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd,Communion with her God was givenUnto her sinless spirit:—nought he said;But gazing on her with a fearful love,Such as saints feel for sister-souls above,Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid,And dreamt with her of Heaven.
Pure were their souls, as infant's breath,Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death.No place for human frailty this,Despondency or fears,Too beautiful the wild appearsAlmost for human bliss.Was love like theirs then given in vain?And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight?Or shall that God, who on the mainHath bound them with a billowy chain,Approve the holy rite,That, by their pious souls alonePerform'd before his silent throneIn innocence and joy,Here, and in realms beyond the grave,Unites those whom the cruel waveCould not for grief destroy?No fears felt they of guilt or sin,For sure they heard a voice withinThat set their hearts at rest;They pass'd the day in peaceful prayer,And when beneath the evening airThey sought again their arbour fair,A smiling angel met them there,And bade their couch be blest.Nor veil'd the Moon her virgin-light,But, clear and cloudless all the night,Hung o'er the flowers where love and beauty lay;And, loth to leave that holy bower,With lingering pace obey'd the powerOf bright-returning day.
And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms,To make it happy as those Isles of rest(When eve the sky becalmsLike a subsiding sea)That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous west,All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,The setting sun's last lingering pageantry!Hath Fancy ever dreamt of seraph-PowersWalking in beauty through these cloud-framed bowers,Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?And hath she ever paused to hear,By moonlight brought unto her ear,Their hymnings wild and sweet?Lo! human creatures meet her viewAs happy, and as beauteous too,As those aërial phantoms!—in their mien,Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seenAll foreign to this utter solitude,Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide,As erst in Grecian Isle had beautifiedThe guardian Deities of Grove and Flood.Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive,And mortal like the flowers that round them smile?Or if into the Ocean sank their IsleA thousand fathoms deep—would they survive,—Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings,And while, to chear their airy voyage, singsWith joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd longOn earth, might glide, then re-assume their sway,And from the gratulating throngOf kindred spirits, drink the inexpressive song?
Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem,Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,Their beauty mellowing in the checquered light,Than, years ago, on that resplendent night,When yielded up to an unearthly dream,In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas.Aye! years ago!—for in this temperate clime,Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of timeFloat through the fragrance of the sunny air;One little month seems scarcely gone,Since in a vessel of their ownAt eve they landed there.Their bower is now a stately bower,For, on its roof, the loftiest flowerTo bloom so lowly grieves,And up like an ambitious thingThat feareth nought, behold it springTill it meet the high Palm-leaves!The porch is opening seen no more,But folded up with blossoms hoar,And leaves green as the sea,And, when the wind hath found them out,The merry waves that dancing routMay not surpass in glee.About their home so little art,They seem to live in Nature's heart,A sylvan court to holdIn a palace framed of lustre green,More rare than to the bright Flower QueenWas ever built of old.
Where are they in the hours of day?—The birds are happy on the spray,The dolphins on the deep,Whether they wanton full of life,Or, wearied with their playful strife,Amid the sunshine sleep.And are these things by Nature blestIn sport, in labour, and in rest,—And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprestWith languor or with pain?No! with light glide, and chearful song,Through flowers and fruit they dance along,And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throngThrough their romantic reign.The wild-deer bounds along the rock,But let him not yon hunter mock,Though strong, and fierce, and fleet;For he will trace his mountain-path,Or else his antler's threatening wrathIn some dark winding meet.Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume,Though on yon leafy tree it bloomLike a flower both rich and fair:Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow,To save from his unerring bow;The arrow finds thee there.Dark are the caverns of the wave,Yet those, that sport there, cannot save,Though hidden from the day,With silvery sides bedropt with gold,Struggling they on the beach are roll'dO'er shells as bright as they.
Their pastimes these, and labours too,From day to day unwearied they renew,In garments floating with a woodland grace:Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites,They glide along through new delights,Like health and beauty vying in the race.Yet hours of soberer bliss they know,Their spirits in more solemn flowAt day-fall oft will run,When from his throne, with kingly motion,Into the loving arms of OceanDescends the setting Sun."Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales,Land of my birth, forsaken Wales!Towering from continent or sea,Where is the Mountain like to thee?—The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,—Thou! on whose ever-varying sideThe shadows and the sun-beams glideIn still or stormy weather.Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name?And thine too, of gigantic frame,Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame,Oh! proud ye stand together!And thou, sweet Lake!"—but from its waveShe turn'd her inward eye,For near these banks, within her grave,Her Mother sure must lie:Weak were her limbs, long, long ago,And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.
Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voiceFrom these sad dreams recalHis weeping wife; and deeply chear'dShe soon forgets them all.Or, haply, through delighted tears,Her mother's smiling shade appears,And, her most duteous child caressing,Bestows on her a parent's blessing,And tells that o'er these holy grovesOft hangs the parent whom she loves.How beauteous both in hours like these!Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees,They think of things for which no words are found;They need not speak: their looks expressMore life-pervading tendernessThan music's sweetest sound.He thinks upon the dove-like restThat broods within her pious breast;The holy calm, the hush divine,Where pensive, night-like glories shine;Even as the mighty Ocean deep,Yet clear and waveless as the sleepOf some lone heaven-reflecting lake,When evening-airs its gleam forsake.She thinks upon his love for her,His wild, empassion'd character,To whom a look, a kiss, a smile,Rewards for danger and for toil!His power of spirit unsubdued,His fearlessness,—his fortitude,—The radiance of his gifted soulWhere never mists or darkness roll:A poet's soul that flows for ever,Right onwards like a noble river,Refulgent still, or by its native woodsShaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes.
In love and mercy, sure on him had GodThe sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd;Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain;With brightening smiles the Vision hungO'er the rapt poet while he sung,More beauteous from the strain.The songs he pour'd were sad and wild,And while they would have sooth'd a child,Who soon bestows his tears,A deeper pathos in them layThat would have moved a hermit gray,Bow'd down with holy years.One song he had about a ShipThat perish'd on the Main,So woeful, that his Mary pray'd,At one most touching pause he made,To cease the hearse-like strain:And yet, in spite of all her pain,Implored him, soon as he obey'd,To sing it once again.With faultering voice then would he singOf many a well-known far-off thing,Towers, castles, lakes, and rills;Their names he gave not—could not give—But happy ye, he thought, who liveAmong the Cambrian hills.Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms,Full many a lovely layHe sung;—and of two happy spritesWho live and revel in delightsFor ever, night and day.And who, even of immortal birth,Or that for Heaven have left this earth,Were e'er more blest than they?
But shall that bliss endure for ever?And shall these consecrated grovesBehold and cherish their immortal loves?Or must it come, the hour that is to severThose whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare?Awful that thought, and, like unto despair,Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill;Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will,But the same fate together let them share;For how could either hope to die resign'd,If God should say, "One must remain behind!"Yet wisely doth the spirit shrinkFrom thought, when it is death to think;Or haply, a kind being turnsTo brighter hopes the soul that mournsIn killing woe; else many an eye,Now glad, would weep its destiny.Even so it fares with them: they wish to liveLong on this island, lonely though it be.Old age itself to them would pleasure give,For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see,Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously,And with a silver voice most wildly sweet,Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet.
Are they in truth her parents?—Was her birthNot drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breastOf some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'dWith purest flames, enamour'd of a God,And gave this child to light in realms of rest;Then sent her to adorn these island bowers,To sport and play with the delighted hours,Till call'd again to dwell among the blest?Sweet are such fancies:—but that kindling smileDissolves them all!—Her native isleThis sure must be: If she in Heaven were born,What breath'd into her faceThat winning human grace,Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn?For, like the timid light of infant day,That oft, when dawning, seems to die away,The gleam of rapture from her visage flies,Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes.Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again!And let thy parents live upon the sound;No other music wish they till they die.For never yet disease, or grief, or pain,Within thy breast the living lyre hath found,Whose chords send forth that touching melody.Sing on! Sing on! It is a lovely air.Well could thy mother sing it when a maid:Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade,To list a tune that breathes of nothing there,A tune that by his mountain springs,Beside his slumbering lambkins fair,The Cambrian shepherd sings.
The air on her sweet lips hath died,And as a harper, when his tune is play'd,Pathetic though it be, with smiling browHaply doth careless fling his harp aside,Even so regardlessly upstarteth now,With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid,As if, with a capricious gladness,She strove to mock the soul of sadness,Then mourning through the glade.Light as a falling leaf that springsAway before the zephyr's wings,Amid the verdure seems to lieOf motion reft, then suddenlyWith bird-like fluttering mounts on high,Up yon steep hill's unbroken side,Behold the little Fairy glide.Though free her breath, untired her limb,For through the air she seems to swim,Yet oft she stops to look behindOn them below;—till with the windShe flies again, and on the hill-top farShines like the spirit of the evening star.Nor lingers long: as if a sightHalf-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight,In rapid motion, winding stillTo break the steepness of the hill,With leaps, and springs, and outstretch'd arms,More graceful in her vain alarms,The child outstrips the Ocean gale,In haste to tell her wondrous tale.Her parents' joyful hearts admire,Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire,All bright with tiny suns,And the gleamings of the feathery gold,That play along each wavy foldOf her mantle as she runs.
"What ails my child?" her mother cries,Seeing the wildness in her eyes,The wonder on her cheek;But fearfully she beckons still,Up to her watch-tower on the hill,Ere one word can she speak."My Father! Mother! quickly flyUp to the green-hill top with me,And tell me what you there descry;For a cloud hath fallen from the sky,And is sailing on the sea."They wait not to hear that word again:The steep seems level as the plain,And up they glide with ease:They stand one moment on the heightIn agony, then bless the sight,And drop upon their knees."A Ship!"—no more can Mary say,"A blessed Ship!" and faints away.—Not so the happy sight subduesFitz-Owen's heart;—he calmly viewsThe gallant vessel tossHer prow superbly up and down,As if she wore the Ocean Crown;And now, exulting in the breeze,With new-woke English pride he seesSt George's blessed Cross.
Behold them now, the happy three,Hang up a signal o'er the sea,And shout with echoing sound,While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss,The child prints many a playful kissUpon their hands, or, mad with glee,Is dancing round and round.Scarce doth the thoughtless infant knowWhy thus their tears like rain should flow,Yet she must also weep;Such tears as innocence doth shedUpon its undisturbed bed,When dreaming in its sleep.And oft, and oft, her father pressesHer breast to his, and bathes her tresses,Her sweet eyes, and fair brow."How beautiful upon the waveThe vessel sails, who comes to save!Fitting it was that first she shoneBefore the wondering eyes of one,So beautiful as thou.See how before the wind she goes,Scattering the waves like melting snows!Her course with glory fillsThe sea for many a league!—Descending,She stoopeth now into the vale,Now, as more freshly blows the gale,She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.Oh! whither is she tending?She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay;As for her crew, how blest are they!See! how she veers around!Back whirl the waves with louder sound;And now her prow points to the land:For the Ship, at her glad lord's command,Doth well her helm obey."
They cast their eyes around the isle:But what a change is there!For ever fled that lonely smileThat lay on earth and air,That made its haunts so still and holy,Almost for bliss too melancholy,For life too wildly fair.Gone—gone is all its loneliness,And with it much of loveliness.Into each deep glen's dark recess,The day-shine pours like rain,So strong and sudden is the lightReflected from that wonder bright,Now tilting o'er the Main.Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,The voice of the evening-gun,The spell of the enchantment broke,Like dew beneath the sun.Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheersOf these delighted mariners,And the loud sound of the oar,As bending back away they pull,With measured pause, most beautiful,Approaching to the shore.For her yards are bare of man and sail,Nor moves the giant to the gale;But, on the Ocean's breast,With storm-proof cables, stretching far,There lies the stately Ship of War;And glad is she of rest.
Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away,And leave your bower to flourish and decay,Without one parting tear?Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd,And with your smiling infant play'dFor many a blessed year!No! not in vain that bower hath shedIts blossoms o'er your marriage-bed,Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain,Forgetful of her heavenly reign,On them whose pure and holy blissEven beautified that wilderness.To every rock, and glade, and dell,You now breathe forth a sad farewell."Say! wilt thou ever murmur onWith that same voice when we are gone,Beloved stream!—Ye birds of light!And in your joy as musical as bright,Still will you pour that thrilling strain,Unheard by us who sail the distant main?We leave our nuptial bower to you:There still your harmless loves renew,And there, as they who left it, blest,The loveliest ever build your nest.Farewell once more—for now and ever!Yet, though unhoped-for mercy severOur lives from thee, where grief might come at last;Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms,Or driven before the blast,Most surely shall our spirits neverForget the Isle of Palms."
"What means the Ship?" Fitz-Owen cries,And scarce can trust his startled eyes,"While safely she at anchor swings,Why doth she thus expand her wings?She will not surely leave the bay,Where sweetly smiles the closing day,As if it tempted her to stay.O cruel Ship! 'tis even so:No sooner come than in haste to go.Angel of bliss! and fiend of wo!"——"Oh! let that God who brought her here,My husband's wounded spirit chear!Mayhap the ship for months and yearsHath been among the storms, and fearsYon lowering cloud, that on the waveFlings down the shadow of a grave;For well thou know'st the bold can beBy shadows daunted, when they sail the sea.Think, in our own lost Ship, when o'er our headWalk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light,How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dreadOn her, the glory of the innocent night,As if in those still hours of heavenly joy,They saw a spirit smiling to destroy.Trust that, when morning brings her light,The sun will shew a glorious sight,This very Ship in joy returningWith outspread sails and ensigns burning,To quench in bliss our causeless mourning."—"O Father! look with kinder eyesOn me,"—the Fairy-infant cries."Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad,At times when I was gay and glad,These are not like thy other sighs.But that I saw my Father grieve,Most happy when yon thing did leaveOur shores, was I:—Mid waves and wind,Where, Father! could we ever findSo sweet an island as our own?And so we all would think, I well believe,Lamenting, when we look'd behind,That the Isle of Palms was gone."
Oh blessed child! each artless toneOf that sweet voice, thus plaintivelyBreathing of comfort to thyself unknown,Who feelest not how beautiful thou art,Sinks like an anthem's pious melodyInto thy father's agitated heart,And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own.A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face,And thou, rejoicing once again to hearThe voice of love so pleasant to thine ear,Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn,Bounding along like a sportive fawn,With laugh and song renew'st thy devious race;Or round them, like a guardian sprite,Dancing with more than mortal grace,Steepest their gazing souls in still delight.For how could they, thy parents, seeThy innocent and fearless glee,And not forget, but one short hour ago,When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was their woe?—Most like a dream it doth appear,When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here:—A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone,Was surely passing-sweet:—now it is gone,Not worth one single tear.