1804.
Yet once more, and once more, awake, my Harp,From silence and neglect—one lofty strain;Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,And fearful joy, to celebrate the dayOf the Redeemer.—Near two thousand sunsHave set their seals upon the rolling lapseOf generations, since the dayspring firstBeam'd from on high!—Now to the mighty massOf that increasing aggregate we addOne unit more. Space in comparisonHow small, yet mark'd with how much misery;Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.
So has the year been character'd with woeIn Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes;Yet 't was not thus He taught—not thus He lived,Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayerAnd much thanksgiving. He, a man of woes,Went on the way appointed,—path, though rude,Yet borne with patience still:—He came to cheerThe broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,And on the wandering and benighted mindTo pour the light of truth. O task divine!O more than angel teacher! He had wordsTo soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,He, pointing to the star of peace on high,Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smileAt the surrounding wreck.——When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,His persecutors—"Father, pardon them,They know not what they do."
Angels of Heaven,Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,And did him homage, say, may mortal joinThe halleluiahs of the risen God?Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heardAmid the seraphim in light divine?Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,Low though it be and humble. Lord of life,The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent nowFills my uprising soul.—I mount, I flyFar o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.
* * * * *
Yet once again, my Harp, yet once againOne ditty more, and on the mountain ashI will again suspend thee. I have feltThe warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,I woke to thee the melancholy song.Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaksOf frolic fancy to the line of truth;Not unrepining, for my froward heartStills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flowOf spring-gales past—the woods and storied hauntsOf my not songless boyhood.—Yet once more,Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink;The good, the brave—he must not, shall not sinkWithout the meed of some melodious tear.
Though from the Muse's chalice I may pourNo precious dews of Aganippe's well,Or Castaly,—though from the morning cloudI fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse:Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scentOf Britain, my loved country; and with tearsMost eloquent, yet silent, I will batheThy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warmAnd honest as the ebbing blood that flow'dFast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,If ever I have loved, with faltering step,To follow thee in the cold and starless night,To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loudAmid the pauses of the storm, have pour'dWild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,The dying soul's viaticum; if oftAmid the carnage of the field I've sateWith thee upon the moonlight throne, and sungTo cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,With mercy and forgiveness—visitantOf Heaven—sit thou upon my harp,And give it feeling, which were else too coldFor argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose,'Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when—
* * * * *
Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd nameEnsures continuance to thy fame;Both sense and truth this verdict give,While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live!
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. GILL, WHO WAS DROWNED IN THE RIVER TRENT, WHILE BATHING, 9TH AUGUST, 1802.
He sunk, the impetuous river roll'd along,The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath;And rising sad the rustling sedge among,The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death.
Nymph of the Trent! why didst thou not appear
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave!
Alas! too late thou camest to embalm his bier,
And deck with waterflags his early grave.
Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey,Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride;While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay,And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide.
The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye,The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved,I mark them rise—I mark the general sigh!Unhappy youth! and wert thou so beloved?
On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink,When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade;On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrinkTo hold mysterious converse with thy shade.
Of thee, as early, I, with vagrant feet,Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale,Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet,And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale.
And, oh! ye nymphs of Pæon! who presideO'er running rill and salutary stream.Guard ye in future well the halcyon tideFrom the rude death-shriek and the dying scream.
Reader! if with no vulgar sympathyThou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth,Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot.Here Cowper rests. Although renown have madeHis name familiar to thine ear, this stoneMay tell thee that his virtues were aboveThe common portion:—that the voice, now hush'dIn death, was once serenely querulousWith pity's tones, and in the ear of woeSpake music. Now, forgetful, at thy feet,His tired head presses on its last long rest,Still tenant of the tomb;—and on the cheek,Once warm with animation's lambent flush,Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay.Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part;And, these sad garments of MortalityPut off, we trust, that to a happier landHe went a light and gladsome passenger.Sigh'st thou for honours, reader? Call to mindThat glory's voice is impotent to pierceThe silence of the tomb! but virtue bloomsEven on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies.So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walkWith Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ.
When twilight steals along the ground,And all the bells are ringing round,One, two, three, four, and five,I at my study window sit,And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,To bliss am all alive.
But though impressions calm and sweetThrill round my heart a holy heat,And I am inly glad;The tear-drop stands in either eye,And yet I cannot tell thee why,I'm pleased, and yet I'm sad.
The silvery rack that flies away,Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,Does that disturb my breast?Nay, what have I, a studious man,To do with life's unstable plan,Or pleasure's fading vest?
Is it that here I must not stop,But o'er yon blue hill's woody topMust bend my lonely way?No, surely no! for give but meMy own fireside, and I shall beAt home where'er I stray.
Then is it that yon steeple there,With music sweet shall fill the air,When thou no more canst hear?Oh, no! oh, no! for then, forgiven,I shall be with my God in heaven,Released from every fear.
Then whence it is I cannot tell,But there is some mysterious spellThat holds me when I'm glad;And so the tear-drop fills my eye,When yet in truth I know not why,Or wherefore I am sad.
It is not that my lot is low,That bids this silent tear to flow;It is not grief that bids me moan;It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,When the tired hedger hies him home;Or by the woodland pool to rest,When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,With hallow'd airs and symphonies,My spirit takes another tone,And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sere and dead,It floats upon the water's bed;I would not be a leaf, to dieWithout recording sorrow's sigh!
The woods and winds, with sullen wail,Tell all the same unvaried tale;I've none to smile when I am free,And when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,That thinks on me, and loves me too;I start, and when the vision's flown,I weep that I am all alone.
If far from me the Fates removeDomestic peace, connubial love,The prattling ring, the social cheer,Affection's voice, affection's tear,Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,To me your iron aid impart!O teach me when the nights are chill,And my fireside is lone and still;When to the blaze that crackles near,I turn a tired and pensive ear,And Nature conquering bids me sighFor love's soft accents whispering nigh;O teach me, on that heavenly road,That leads to Truth's occult abode,To wrap my soul in dreams sublime,Till earth and care no more be mine.Let bless'd Philosophy impartHer soothing measures to my heart;And while with Plato's ravish'd earsI list the music of the spheres,Or on the mystic symbols pore,That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,I shall not brood on summers gone,Nor think that I am all alone.
Fanny! upon thy breast I may not lie!Fanny! thou dost not hear me when I speak!Where art thou, love?—Around I turn my eye,And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.Was it a dream? or did my love beholdIndeed my lonely couch?—Methought the breathFann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was coldAnd hollow, and the livery of deathInvested her pale forehead. Sainted maid!My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave,Through the long wintry night, when wind and waveRock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.Yet, hush! my fond heart, hush! there is a shoreOf better promise; and I know at last,When the long sabbath of the tomb is past,We two shall meet in Christ—to part no more.
Saw'st thou that light? exclaim'd the youth, and paused:Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the streamThat skirts the woods it for a moment play'd.Again, more light it gleam'd,—or does some spriteDelude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams,And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom,As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voiceOf revelry, or thrifty watchfulness,Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour?No sprite deludes mine eyes,—the beam now glowsWith steady lustre.—Can it be the moonWho, hidden long by the invidious veilThat blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods?No moon to-night has look'd upon the seaOf clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger,She has been sleeping with Endymion.
* * * * *
The pious man,In this bad world, when mists and couchant stormsHide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faithAbove the clouds that threat him, to the fieldsOf ether, where the day is never veil'dWith intervening vapours, and looks downSerene upon the troublous sea, that hidesThe earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether faceTo grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd,The glaring sunbeam plays.
Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in gray,Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes,And from his tower of mist,Night's watchman hurries down.
There was a little bird upon that pile;It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle,And made sweet melody.The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,For other note none swell'd the air but his.It seem'd as if the little chorister,Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the noteEchoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,——Much musing——
O pale art thou, my lamp, and faintThy melancholy ray:When the still night's unclouded saintIs walking on her way.Through my lattice leaf embower'd,Fair she sheds her shadowy beam,And o'er my silent sacred roomCasts a checker'd twilight gloom;I throw aside the learned sheet,I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet.Sad vestal, why art thou so fair,Or why am I so frail?
Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon,And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards!Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speakThy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd;So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloudThou shinest, like a cresset, beaming farFrom the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave.
O give me music—for my soul doth faint;I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine earLongs for some air of peace, some dying plaint,That may the spirit from its cell unsphere.
Hark how it falls! and now it steals along,Like distant bells upon the lake at eve,When all is still; and now it grows more strong,As when the choral train their dirges weave,Mellow and many-voiced; where every close,O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows.
Oh! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soarsBeyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind.Lo! angels lead me to the happy shores,And floating pæans fill the buoyant wind. Farewell! base earth, farewell! my soul is freed,Far from its clayey cell it springs,—
* * * * *
And must thou go, and must we part?Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit;The pang that rends in twain my heart,Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it?Thy sex is fickle,—when away,Some happier youth may win thy——
* * * * *
Ah! who can say, however fair his view,Through what sad scenes his path may lie?Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,Secure his own will never need it too?
Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue,Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eyeThe illusive past and dark futurity;Soon will they know—
* * * * *
Hush'd is the lyre—the hand that sweptThe low and pensive wires,Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires.
Yes—it is still—the lyre is still;The spirit which its slumbers brokeHath pass'd away,—and that weak hand that wokeIts forest melodies hath lost its skill.
Yet I would press you to my lips once more,Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,Mix'd with decaying odours: for to meYe have beguiled the hours of infancy,As in the wood-paths of my native—
* * * * *
When high romance o'er every wood and streamDark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire,Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering dream,First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre.All there was mystery then, the gust that wokeThe midnight echo was a spirit's dirge,And unseen fairies would the moon invokeTo their light morrice by the restless surge.Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles,Too much ...The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles,And dark forebodings now my bosom fill.
Once more, and yet once more,I give unto my harp a dark woven lay;I heard the waters roar,I heard the flood of ages pass away.O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwellIn thine eternal cell,Noting, gray chronicler! the silent years,I saw thee rise,—I saw the scroll complete;Thou spakest, and at thy feetThe universe gave way.
1These Fragments were written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during the last year of his life.
WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.
THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.
Ding-dong! ding-dong!Merry, merry go the bells,Ding-dong! ding-dong!Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,"Swinging slow with sullen roar,"Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay!Ding-dong, ding-dong calls us away.
Round the oak, and round the elm,Merrily foot it o'er the ground!The sentry ghost it stands aloof,So merrily, merrily foot it round.Ding-dong! ding-dong!Merry, merry go the bells,Swelling in the nightly gale,The sentry ghost,It keeps its post,And soon, and soon our sports must fail:But let us trip the nightly ground,While the merry, merry bells ring round.
Hark! Hark! the deathwatch ticks!See, see, the winding-sheet!Our dance is done,Our race is run,And we must lie at the alder's feet!Ding-dong! ding-dong!Merry, merry go the bells,Swinging o'er the weltering wave!And we must seekOur deathbeds bleak,Where the green sod grows upon the grave.
They vanish—The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited in a sky-blue robe, attended by mournful music.
Come, Melancholy, sister mine!Cold the dews, and chill the night!Come from thy dreary shrine!The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,And underneath her sickly rayTroops of squalid spectres play,And the dying mortals' groanStartles the night on her dusky throne.Come, come, sister mine!Gliding on the pale moonshine:We'll ride at easeOn the tainted breeze,And oh! our sport will be divine.
The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep glen in the rear, habited in black, and covered with a thick veil.—She speaks.
Sister, from my dark abode,Where nests the raven, sits the toad,Hither I come, at thy command:Sister, sister, join thy hand!I will smooth the way for thee,Thou shalt furnish food for me.Come, let us speed our wayWhere the troops of spectres play.To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,Where Death sits with a horrible leer,A lasting grin, on a throne of bones,And skim along the blue tombstones.Come, let us speed away,Lay our snares, and spread our tether!I will smooth the way for thee,Thou shalt furnish food for me;And the grass shall waveO'er many a grave,Where youth and beauty sleep together.
CONSUMPTION.
Come, let us speed our way,Join our hands, and spread our tether!I will furnish food for thee,Thou shalt smooth the way for me!And the grass shall waveO'er many a grave,Where youth and beauty sleep together.
MELANCHOLY.
Hist, sister, hist! who comes here?Oh! I know her by that tear,By that blue eye's languid glare,By her skin, and by her hair:She is mine,And she is thine,Now the deadliest draught prepare.
CONSUMPTION.
In the dismal night air dress'd,I will creep into her breast:Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin,And feed on the vital fire within.Lover, do not trust her eyes,—When they sparkle most, she dies!Mother, do not trust her breath,—Comfort she will breathe in death!Father, do not strive to save her,—She is mine, and I must have her!The coffin must be her bridal bed!The winding-sheet must wrap her head;The whispering winds must o'er her sigh,For soon in the grave the maid must lie:The worm it will riotOn heavenly diet,When death has deflower'd her eye.
[They vanish. While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters.]
ANGELINA.
With1what a silent and dejected paceDost thou, wan Moon! upon thy way advanceIn the blue welkin's vault!—Pale wanderer!Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love,That thus, with such a melancholy grace,Thou dost pursue thy solitary course?Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsookThy widow'd breast—on which the spoiler oftHas nestled fondly, while the silver cloudsFantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night,Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd roundWith its thick fringe thy couch? Wan traveller,How like thy fate to mine!—Yet I have stillOne heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st;My woes will soon be buried in the graveOf kind forgetfulness—my journey here.Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn,Is yet but short, and soon my weary feetWill greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest.But thou, unhappy Queen! art doom'd to traceThy lonely walk in the drear realms of night,While many a lagging age shall sweep beneathThe leaden pinions of unshaken time;Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hueTo cheat thy steps along the weary way.O that the sum of human happinessShould be so trifling, and so frail withal,That when possess'd, it is but lessened grief;And even then there's scarce a sudden gustThat blows across the dismal waste of life,But bears it from the view. Oh! who would shunThe hour that cuts from earth, and fear to pressThe calm and peaceful pillows of the grave,And yet endure the various ills of life,And dark vicissitudes! Soon, I hope, I feel,And am assured, that I shall lay my dead,My weary aching head, on its last rest,And on my lowly bed the grass-green sodWill flourish sweetly. And then they will weepThat one so young, and what they're pleased to callSo beautiful, should die so soon. And tellHow painful Disappointment's canker'd fangWither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek.Oh, foolish ones! why, I shall sleep so sweetly,Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselvesMight envy me my rest! And as for them,Who, on the score of former intimacy,May thus remembrance me—they must themselvesSuccessive fall.
Around the winter fire(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals,And shrill the skater's irons on the poolRing loud, as by the moonlight he performsHis graceful evolutions) they not longShall sit and chat of older times, and featsOf early youth, but silent, one by one,Shall drop into their shrouds. Some, in their age,Ripe for the sickle; others young, like me,And falling green beneath the untimely stroke.Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn,Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down,And dwell with me, a happy family.And oh! thou cruel, yet beloved youth,Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn,Do thou but shed one tear upon my corseAnd say that I was gentle, and deservedA better lover, and I shall forgiveAll, all thy wrongs;—and then do thou forgetThe hapless Margaret, and be as bless'dAs wish can make thee—Laugh, and play, and singWith thy dear choice, and never think of me.Yet hist, I hear a step.—In this dark wood—
* * * * *
1With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,How silently, and how wan a face!Sir P. Sidney.
WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE.
I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian,And many another noble Grecian,Who wealth and palaces resigned,In cots the joys of peace to find;Maximian's meal of turnip-tops(Disgusting food to dainty chops)I've also read of, without wonder;But such a cursed egregious blunder,As that a man of wit and senseShould leave his books to hoard up pence,—Forsake the loved Aonian maidsFor all the petty tricks of trades,I never, either now, or long since,Have heard of such a peace of nonsense;That one who learning's joys hath felt,And at the Muse's altar knelt,Should leave a life of sacred leisureTo taste the accumulating pleasure;And, metamorphosed to an alley duck,Grovel in loads of kindred muck.Oh! 't is beyond my comprehension!A courtier throwing up his pension,—A lawyer working without a fee,—A parson giving charity,—A truly pious methodist preacher,—Are not, egad, so out of nature.Had nature made thee half a fool,But given thee wit to keep a school,I had not stared at thy backsliding:But when thy wit I can confide in,When well I know thy just pretenceTo solid and exalted sense;When well I know that on thy headPhilosophy her lights hath shed,I stand aghast! thy virtues sum to,I wonder what this world will come to!Yet, whence this strain? shall I repineThat thou alone dost singly shine?Shall I lament that thou alone,Of men of parts, hast prudence known?
ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. AGE FOURTEEN.
Oh, Warton! to thy soothing shell,Stretch'd remote in hermit cell,Where the brook runs babbling by,For ever I could listening lie;And catching all the muses' fire,Hold converse with the tuneful quire.
What pleasing themes thy page adorn,The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn,The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime,And Melancholy's mournful chime!Each with unwonted graces shinesIn thy ever lovely lines.
Thy muse deserves the lasting meed;Attuning sweet the Dorian reed,Now the lovelorn swain complains,And sings his sorrows to the plains;Now the sylvan scenes appearThrough all the changes of the year;
Or the elegiac strainSoftly sings of mental pain,And mournful diapasons sailOn the faintly dying gale.But, ah! the soothing scene is o'er,On middle flight we cease to soar,For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep,Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep,In strains unheard before.Now, now the rising fire thrills high,Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly,And every throne explore:The soul entranced, on mighty wings,With all the poet's heat upsprings,And loses earthly woes;Till all alarm'd at the giddy height,The Muse descends on gentler flight,And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose.
The western gale,Mild as the kisses of connubial love,Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved,Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shadeI lie, exhausted with the noontide heat:While rippling o'er its deep worn pebble bed,The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet,Dispensing coolness. On the fringed margeFull many a floweret rears its head,—or pink,Or gaudy daffodil. 'Tis here, at noon,The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire,And lave them in the fountain; here secureFrom Pan, or savage satyr, they disport:Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf,Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly,Invoke the god of slumber....
* * * * *
And, hark! how merrily, from distant tower,Ring round the village bells! now on the galeThey rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud;Anon they die upon the pensive ear,Melting in faintest music. They bespeakA day of jubilee, and oft they bear,Commix'd along the unfrequented shore,The sound of village dance and tabor loud,Startling the musing ear of Solitude.
Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide,When happy Superstition, gabbling eld!Holds her unhurtful gambols. All the dayThe rustic revellers ply the mazy danceOn the smooth shaven green, and then at eveCommence the harmless rites and auguries;And many a tale of ancient days goes round.
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spellsCould hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon,Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence,And still the midnight tempest. Then anonTell of uncharnel'd spectres, seen to glideAlong the lone wood's unfrequented path,Startling the 'nighted traveller; while the soundOf undistinguished murmurs, heard to comeFrom the dark centre of the deepening glen,Struck on his frozen ear.
Oh, Ignorance!Thou art fallen man's best friend! With thee he speedsIn frigid apathy along his way.And never does the tear of agonyBurn down his scorching cheek; or the keen steelOf wounded feeling penetrate his breast.
E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank,I taste of all the keener happinessWhich sense refined affords—E'en now my heartWould fain induce me to forsake the world,Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds,With a small flock, and short suspended reed,To sojourn in the woodland.—Then my thoughtDraws such gay pictures of ideal bliss,That I could almost err in reason's spite,And trespass on my judgment.
Such is life:The distant prospect always seems more fair,And when attain'd, another still succeeds,Far fairer than before,—yet compass'd roundWith the same dangers, and the same dismay.And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,Still discontented, chase the fairy formOf unsubstantial Happiness, to find,When life itself is sinking in the strife,'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.
Some to Aonian lyres of silver soundWith winning elegance attune their song,Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense,And charm the soul with softest harmony:'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seenRoving through Fancy's gay futurity;Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure,Pleasure of days to come. Memory, too, thenComes with her sister, Melancholy sad,Pensively musing on the scenes of youth,Scenes never to return.1Such subjects merit poets used to raiseThe attic verse harmonious; but for meA deadlier theme demands my backward hand,And bids me strike the strings of dissonanceWith frantic energy.'Tis wan Despair I sing, if sing I canOf him before whose blast the voice of Song,And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly,Nor ever dare return. His notes are heardAt noon of night, where, on the coast of blood,The lacerated son of AngolaHowls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind;And, when the awful silence of the nightStrikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heart,He speaks in every conscience-prompted wordHalf utter'd, half suppressed.'Tis him I sing—Despair—terrific name,Striking unsteadily the tremulous chordOf timorous terror—discord in the sound:For to a theme revolting as is this,Dare not I woo the maids of harmony,Who love to sit and catch the soothing soundOf lyre Æolian, or the martial bugle,Calling the hero to the field of glory,And firing him with deeds of high empriseAnd warlike triumph: but from scenes like mineShrink they affrighted, and detest the bardWho dares to sound the hollow tones of horror.
Hence, then, soft maids,And woo the silken zephyr in the bowersBy Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream:For aid like yours I seek not; 'tis for powersOf darker hue to inspire a verse like mine!'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends.
Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron,Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light,And all the myriads of the burning concave:Souls of the damned:—Hither, oh! come and joinThe infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing!He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pangThan all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair!Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power;Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks,Till the loud pæan ring through hell's high vault,And the remotest spirits of the deepLeap from the lake, and join the dreadful song.
1Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of Hope and of Memory.
IRREGULAR.
Silence of death—portentous calm,Those airy forms that yonder flyDenote that your void foreruns a storm,That the hour of fate is nigh.I see, I see, on the dim mist borne,The Spirit of battles rear his crest!I see, I see, that ere the morn,His spear will forsake its hated rest,And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked breast.
O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep,No softly ruffling zephyrs fly;But nature sleeps a deathless sleep,For the hour of battle is nigh.Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak,But a creeping stillness reigns around;Except when the raven, with ominous croak,On the ear does unwelcomely sound.I know, I know what this silence means;I know what the raven saith—Strike, oh, ye bards! the melancholy harp,For this is the eve of death.
Behold, how along the twilight airThe shades of our fathers glide!There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair,And Colma with gray side.No gale around its coolness flings,Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees;And hark! how the harp's unvisited stringsSound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze!'Tis done! the sun he has set in blood!He will never set more to the brave;Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death,For to-morrow he hies to the grave.
Oh! who would cherish life,And cling unto this heavy clog of clay,Love this rude world of strife,Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day;And where, 'neath outward smiles,Conceal'd the snake lies feeding on its prey,Where pitfalls lie in every flowery way,And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles!Hateful it is to me,Its riotous railings and revengeful strife;I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shoutsDinning the ear;—away—away with life!And welcome, oh! thou silent maid,Who in some foggy vault art laid,
Where never daylight's dazzling rayComes to disturb thy dismal sway;And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep,In such forgetful slumbers deep,That all thy senses stupefiedAre to marble petrified.Sleepy Death, I welcome thee!Sweet are thy calms to misery.Poppies I will ask no more,Nor the fatal hellebore;Death is the best, the only cure,His are slumbers ever sure.Lay me in the Gothic tomb,In whose solemn fretted gloomI may lie in mouldering state,With all the grandeur of the great:Over me, magnificent,Carve a stately monument;Then thereon my statue lay,With hands in attitude to pray,And angels serve to hold my head,Weeping o'er the father dead.Duly too at close of day,Let the pealing organ play;And while the harmonious thunders roll,Chant a vesper to my soul:Thus how sweet my sleep will be,Shut out from thoughtful misery!
Away with Death—awayWith all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps,Impervious to the day,Where nature sinks into inanity.How can the soul desireSuch hateful nothingness to crave,And yield with joy the vital fireTo moulder in the grave!Yet mortal life is sad,Eternal storms molest its sullen sky;And sorrows ever rifeDrain the sacred fountain dry—Away with mortal life!But, hail the calm reality,The seraph Immortality!Hail the heavenly bowers of peace,Where all the storms of passion cease.Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er,The wearied spirit weeps no more;But wears the eternal smile of joy,Tasting bliss without alloy.Welcome, welcome, happy bowers,Where no passing tempest lowers;But the azure heavens displayThe everlasting smile of day;Where the choral seraph choirStrike to praise the harmonious lyre;And the spirit sinks to ease,Lull'd by distant symphonies.Oh! to think of meeting thereThe friends whose graves received our tear,The daughter loved, the wife adored,To our widow'd arms restored;And all the joys which death did sever,Given to us again for ever!Who would cling to wretched life,And hug the poison'd thorn of strife;Who would not long from earth to fly,A sluggish senseless lump to lie,When the glorious prospect liesFull before his raptured eyes?
WRITTEN BETWEEN THE AGES OF FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN, WITH A FEW SUBSEQUENT VERBAL ALTERATIONS.
Music, all powerful o'er the human mind,Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm,Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined,And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm.
At her command the various passions lie;She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace;Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy,And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour cease.
Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspireWith strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise;Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fireUrge on the warrior gray with length of days.
Far better she, when, with her soothing lyre,She charms the falchion from the savage grasp,And melting into pity vengeful ire,Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp.
With her in pensive mood I long to roam,At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline,And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam,In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline.
Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise,Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd,With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies,And pleased attention claims the passive mind.
Soft through the dell the dying strains retire,Then burst majestic in the varied swell;Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre,Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell.
Romantic sounds! such is the bliss ye give,That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul,With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to liveFor ever 'neath your undefiled control.
Oh! surely melody from heaven was sent,To cheer the soul when tired with human strife,To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent,And soften down the rugged road of life.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
The morning sun's enchanting raysNow call forth every songster's praise;Now the lark, with upward flight,Gaily ushers in the light;While wildly warbling from each tree,The birds sing songs to Liberty.
But for me no songster sings,For me no joyous lark upsprings;For I, confined in gloomy school,Must own the pedant's iron rule,And far from sylvan shades and bowers,In durance vile must pass the hours;There con the scholiast's dreary lines,Where no bright ray of genius shines,And close to rugged learning cling,While laughs around the jocund spring.How gladly would my soul foregoAll that arithmeticians know,Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach,Or all that industry can reach,To taste each morn of all the joysThat with the laughing sun arise;And unconstrain'd to rove alongThe bushy brakes and glens among;And woo the muse's gentle powerIn unfrequented rural bower:But, ah! such heaven-approaching joysWill never greet my longing eyes;Still will they cheat in vision fine,Yet never but in fancy shine.
Oh, that I were the little wrenThat shrilly chirps from yonder glen!Oh, far away I then would roveTo some secluded bushy grove;There hop and sing with careless glee.Hop and sing at liberty;And, till death should stop my lays,Far from men would spend my days.
Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys,The soother of my cares, inspiring peace;And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave,And blame and censure me, that I don't tieMy every thought down to the desk, and spendThe morning of my life in adding figuresWith accurate monotony: that soThe good things of the world may be my lot,And I might taste the blessedness of wealth:But, oh! I was not made for money getting;For me no much respected plum awaits.Nor civic honour, envied. For as stillI tried to cast with school dexterityThe interesting sums, my vagrant thoughtsWould quick revert to many a woodland haunt,Which fond remembrance cherished, and the penDropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured,In my mind's eye, how on the shores of TrentI erewhile wander'd with my early friendsIn social intercourse. And then I'd thinkHow contrary pursuits had thrown us wide,One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe;They were set down with sober steadiness,Each to his occupation. I alone,A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries,Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veeringWith every wind to every point of the compass.Yes, in the counting-house I could indulgeIn fits of close abstraction; yea, amidThe busy bustling crowds could meditate,And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues awayBeyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend.Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youthI woo'd thy heavenly influence! I would walkA weary way when all my toils were done,To lay myself at night in some lone wood,And hear the sweet song of the nightingale.Oh, those were times of happiness, and stillTo memory doubly dear; for growing yearsHad not then taught me man was made to mourn;And a short hour of solitary pleasure,Stolen from sleep, was ample recompenseFor all the hateful bustles of the day.My opening mind was ductile then, and plastic,And soon the marks of care were worn away,While I was sway'd by every novel impulse,Yielding to all the fancies of the hour.But it has now assumed its character;Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone,Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend.Yet still, O Contemplation! I do loveTo indulge thy solemn musings; still the sameWith thee alone I know to melt and weep,In thee alone delighting. Why alongThe dusky tract of commerce should I toil,When, with an easy competence content,I can alone be happy; where with theeI may enjoy the loveliness of Nature,And loose the wings of Fancy? Thus aloneCan I partake the happiness on earth;And to be happy here is a man's chief end,For to be happy he must needs be good.
ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY.
Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,To give you a sketch—ay, a sketch of myself.'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;But, however, here goes, and as sure as a gun,I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun;For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,She wont be a cynical father confessor.
Come, come, 'twill not do! put that curling brow down;You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown.Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction,That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction;Religious—deistic—now loyal and warm;Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform:This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus;Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,To all points of the compass I veer in a day.
I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild;As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;Then as for politeness—oh! dear—I'm a brute!I show no respect where I never can feel it;And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it.And so in the suite, by these laudable ends,I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.
And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feelThat this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd of steel.It can love (can it not?)—it can hate, I am sure;And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor.For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds;And though far from faultless, or even so-so,I think it may pass as our worldly things go.
Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss!I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,But in process of time I may get the wrong way.I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination.But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;So as for the good, why, if I possess it,I am not yet learned enough to express it.
You yourself must examine the lovelier side,And after your every art you have tried,Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,Hypocrisy never will come in your way.I am upright, I hope; I'm downright, I'm clear!And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere;And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,'Tis now when I swear——.
ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
Here would I wish to sleep. This is the spotWhich I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,From his meridian height, endeavours vainlyTo pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyrComes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nookMost pleasant. Such a one perchance did GrayFrequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate,For I am wearied with my summer's walk;And here I may repose in silent ease;And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may findThe haven of its rest—beneath this sodPerchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.
I would not have my corpse cemented downWith brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthwormOf its predestined dues; no, I would lieBeneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cotters.Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;But there at eve may some congenial soulDuly resort, and shed a pious tear,The good man's benison—no more I ask.And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look downFrom where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,The earth,) then will I cast a glance belowOn him who thus my ashes shall embalm;And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pineIn this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.
Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body,Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,And, spite of reason, bids it look beyondHis narrow verge of being, and provideA decent residence for its clayey shell,Endear'd to it by time. And who would layHis body in the city burial-place,To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,And yield its narrow house another tenant,Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?No, I will lay me in the village ground;There are the dead respected. The poor hind,Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invadeThe silent resting place of death. I've seenThe labourer, returning from his toil,Here stay his steps, and call his children round,And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,And, in his rustic manner, moralize.I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,And all the honours which he paid the grave,And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries,Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,Are not protected from the drunken insolenceOf wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bonesMay lie—or in the city's crowded bounds,Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,Or left a prey on some deserted shoreTo the rapacious cormorant,—yet still,(For why should sober reason cast awayA thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spiritShall wing its way to these my native regions,And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll thinkOf times when I was seated 'neath this yewIn solemn rumination; and will smileWith joy that I have got my long'd release.
Thou base repiner at another's joy,Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own,Oh, far away from generous Britons fly,And find on meaner climes a fitter throne.Away, away, it shall not be,Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;The truly generous heart disdainsThy meaner, lowlier fires, while heJoys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.
Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed—Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed,Thy happy victim will emerge to light;When o'er his head in silence that reposesSome kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and allWill curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall.
* * * * *
Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey?Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,Who only boast what thou wouldst take away.See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting,O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp.Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd?Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion live?Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest,That short quick sigh—their sad responses give.
And canst thou rob a poet of his song;Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise?Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long;Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his laysWhile yet he lives—for to his merits just,Though future ages join his fame to raise,Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?
* * * * *
Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd farFrom thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy!And many a flower, which in the passing timeMy heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chillOf undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died.Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceasedTo hover o'er the many-voiced stringsOf my long silent lyre, yet thou canst stillCall the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell,And with recalled images of blissWarm my reluctant heart. Yes, I would throw,Once more would throw a quick and hurried handO'er the responding chords. It hath not ceased—It cannot, will not cease; the heavenly warmthPlays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek;Still, though unbidden, plays. Fair Poesy!The summer and the spring, the wind and rain,Sunshine and storm, with various interchange,Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month.Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired,Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. Sorceress!I cannot burst thy bonds. It is but liftThy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault,Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm,And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme,And I could follow thee, on thy night's work,Up to the regions of thrice chasten'd fire,Or, in the caverns of the ocean flood,Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot.Yet other duties call me, and mine earMust turn away from the high minstrelsyOf thy soul-trancing harp, unwillinglyMust turn away; there are severer strains(And surely they are sweet as ever smoteThe ear of spirit, from this mortal coilReleased and disembodied), there are strainsForbid to all, save those whom solemn thought,Through the probation of revolving years,And mighty converse with the spirit of truth,Have purged and purified. To these my soulAspireth; and to this sublimer endI gird myself, and climb the toilsome steepWith patient expectation. Yea, sometimesForetaste of bliss rewards me; and sometimesSpirits unseen upon my footsteps wait,And minister strange music, which doth seemNow near, now distant, now on high, now low,Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete,And full fruition filling all the soul.Surely such ministry, though rare, may sootheThe steep ascent, and cheat the lassitudeOf toil; and but that my fond heartReverts to day-dreams of the summer gone,When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake,I lay a listless muser, prizing, farAbove all other lore, the poet's theme;But for such recollections I could braceMy stubborn spirit for the arduous pathOf science unregretting; eye afarPhilosophy upon her steepest height,And with bold step and resolute attemptPursue her to the innermost recess,Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth.
DACTYLICS.
Woman of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot,Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger,Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;
Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.
Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite;Spurned by the beings who lured thee from innocence;Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence;
Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled;Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness;Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage!
Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here;Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;None after thee inquires with solicitude;
Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down,Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind,Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.
Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave.Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.
Once wert thou happy—thou wert once innocent;But the seducer beguiled thee in artlessness,Then he abandoned thee unto thine infamy.
Now he perhaps is reclined on a bed of down:But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,God of the red right arm! where is thy thunder-bolt?
Thou simple Lyre! thy music wildHas served to charm the weary hour,And many a lonely night has 'guiled,When even pain has own'd, and smiled,Its fascinating power.
Yet, O my Lyre! the busy crowdWill little heed thy simple tones;Them mightier minstrels harping loudEngross,—and thou and I must shroudWhere dark oblivion 'thrones.
No hand, they diapason o'er,Well skill'd I throw with sweep sublime;For me, no academic loreHas taught the solemn strain to pour,Or build the polish'd rhyme.
Yet thou to sylvan themes canst soar;Thou know'st to charm the woodland train;The rustic swains believe thy powerCan hush the wild winds when they roar,And still the billowy main.
These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,I, still unknown, may live with thee,And gentle zephyr's wing will sweepThy solemn string, where low I sleep,Beneath the alder tree.
This little dirge will please me moreThan the full requiem's swelling peal;I'd rather than that crowds should sighFor me, that from some kindred eyeThe trickling tear should steal.
Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,Perhaps from me debarr'd;And dear to me the classic zone,Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,Adorns the accepted bard.
And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwellWhere Cam or Isis winds along,Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste,I yet might call the ear of tasteTo listen to my song.
Oh! then, my little friend, thy styleI'd change to happier lays,Oh! then the cloister'd glooms should smile,And through the long, the fretted aisleShould swell the note of praise.
Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!Whose modest form, so delicately fine,Was nursed in whirling storms,And cradled in the winds.
Thee when young spring first question'd winter's sway,And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,Thee on this bank he threwTo mark his victory.
In this low vale, the promise of the year,Serene thou openest to the nipping gale,Unnoticed and alone,Thy tender elegance.
So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the stormsOf chill adversity, in some lone walkOf life she rears her head,Obscure and unobserved;
While every bleaching breeze that on her blowsChastens her spotless purity of breast,And hardens her to bearSerene the ills of life.
ON SEEING ENGRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS.
Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow,When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night,Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of lightThat shoots athwart the gloom opaque below;And listen to the distant death-shriek longFrom lonely mariner foundering in the deep,Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:Or, when along the liquid skySerenely chant the orbs on high,Dost love to sit in musing trance,And mark the northern meteor's dance(While far below the fitful oarFlings its faint pauses on the steepy shore),And list the music of the breeze,That sweeps by fits the bending seas;And often bears with sudden swellThe shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,By the spirits sung, who keepTheir night-watch on the treacherous deep,And guide the wakeful helmsman's eyeTo Helice in northern sky;And there upon the rock reclinedWith mighty visions fill'st the mind,Such as bound in magic spellHim1who grasp'd the gates of Hell,And, bursting Pluto's dark domain,Held to the day the terrors of his reign.
Genius of Horror and romantic awe,Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep,Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep,Can force the inmost soul to own its law;Who shall now, sublimest spirit,Who shall now thy wand inherit,From him2thy darling child who bestThy shuddering images expressed?Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud,His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd,And now he lays his aching headIn the dark mansion of the silent dead.
Mighty magician! long thy wand has lainBuried beneath the unfathomable deep;And oh! for ever must its efforts sleep,May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain?Oh, yes, 'tis his! Thy other son!He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on,Fuesslin waves thy wand,—again they rise,Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes.Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steepWhere round his head the vollied lightnings flung,And the loud winds that round his pillow rungWoo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep.
Or on the highest top of TeneriffeSeated the fearless boy, and bade him lookWhere far below the weather-beaten skiffOn the gulf bottom of the ocean strook.Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless earThe death-sob, and, disdaining rest,Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast,And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.Then, Superstition, at thy call,She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,And set before his awe-struck sightThe savage feast and spectred fight;And summoned from his mountain tombThe ghastly warrior son of gloom,His fabled runic rhymes to sing,While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees,Laid on the stormy Hebrides,Which on the mists of evening gleam,Or crowd the foaming desert stream;Lastly her storied hand she waves,And lays him in Florentian caves;There milder fables, lovelier themes,Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,There pity's lute arrests his ear,And draws the half reluctant tear;And now at noon of night he rovesAlong the embowering moonlight groves,And as from many a cavern'd dellThe hollow wind is heard to swell,He thinks some troubled spirit sighs,And as upon the turf he lies,Where sleeps the silent beam of night,He sees below the gliding sprite,And hears in Fancy's organs soundAërial music warbling round.
Taste lastly comes and smooths the whole,And breathes her polish o'er his soul;Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat,The wondrous work is now complete.
The Poet dreams:—The shadow flies,And fainting fast its image dies.But lo! the Painter's magic forceArrests the phantom's fleeting course;It lives—it lives—the canvas glows,And tenfold vigour o'er it flows.The Bard beholds the work achieved,And as he sees the shadow riseSublime before his wondering eyes,Starts at the image his own mind conceived.
1Dante.2Ibid.