Then I rose, at dawn departing,Wan the dead earth, wan the snow,Wan the frost-beam dimly dartingWhere the corn-seed lurk'd below;From that night, as streams dividingAt the fountain till the sea,Wildly chafing, gently gliding,Life has twofold lives for me;One by mart and forum passing,Vex'd reflection of the crowd;One the hush of forests glassing,Or the changes of the cloud.By the calmer stream, for everDwell the ghosts that haunt the heart,And the phantoms and the riverMake the Poet-World of Art.There in all that Fancy gildeth,Still thy vanish'd smile I see;And each airy hall it buildethIs a votive shrine to thee!Do men praise the labour?—gladden'dThat the homage may endure;Do they scorn it?—only sadden'dThat thine altar is so poor.If the Beautiful be clearerAs the seeker's days decline,Should the Ideal not be nearerAs my soul approaches thine?Thus the single light bereft meFused through all creation flows;Gazing where a sun had left me,Lo, the myriad stars arose!
Then I rose, at dawn departing,Wan the dead earth, wan the snow,Wan the frost-beam dimly dartingWhere the corn-seed lurk'd below;
From that night, as streams dividingAt the fountain till the sea,Wildly chafing, gently gliding,Life has twofold lives for me;
One by mart and forum passing,Vex'd reflection of the crowd;One the hush of forests glassing,Or the changes of the cloud.
By the calmer stream, for everDwell the ghosts that haunt the heart,And the phantoms and the riverMake the Poet-World of Art.
There in all that Fancy gildeth,Still thy vanish'd smile I see;And each airy hall it buildethIs a votive shrine to thee!
Do men praise the labour?—gladden'dThat the homage may endure;Do they scorn it?—only sadden'dThat thine altar is so poor.
If the Beautiful be clearerAs the seeker's days decline,Should the Ideal not be nearerAs my soul approaches thine?
Thus the single light bereft meFused through all creation flows;Gazing where a sun had left me,Lo, the myriad stars arose!
Now the eastern hill-top fadethFrom the arid wastes forlorn,And the only tree that shadethHas the scant leaves of the thorn.Not a home to smile before me,Not a voice to cheer is heard;Hush! the thorn-leaves tremble o'er me,—Hark, the carol of a bird!Unto air what charm is given?Angel, as a link to thee,Midway between earth and heavenHangs the delicate melody!How it teacheth while it chideth,Is the pathway so forlorn?Mercy over man presideth,And—the bird sings from the thorn.Floating on, the music leads me,As the pausing-place I leave,And the gentle wing precedes meThrough the lullèd airs of eve.Stay, O last of all the number,Bathing happy plumes in light,Till the deafness of the slumber,Till the blindness of the night.Only for the vault to leave thee,Only with my life to lose;Let my closing eyes perceive thee,Fold thy wings amid the yews.
Now the eastern hill-top fadethFrom the arid wastes forlorn,And the only tree that shadethHas the scant leaves of the thorn.
Not a home to smile before me,Not a voice to cheer is heard;Hush! the thorn-leaves tremble o'er me,—Hark, the carol of a bird!
Unto air what charm is given?Angel, as a link to thee,Midway between earth and heavenHangs the delicate melody!
How it teacheth while it chideth,Is the pathway so forlorn?Mercy over man presideth,And—the bird sings from the thorn.
Floating on, the music leads me,As the pausing-place I leave,And the gentle wing precedes meThrough the lullèd airs of eve.
Stay, O last of all the number,Bathing happy plumes in light,Till the deafness of the slumber,Till the blindness of the night.
Only for the vault to leave thee,Only with my life to lose;Let my closing eyes perceive thee,Fold thy wings amid the yews.
Hark! the awe-whisperd'd prayer, "God spare my mind!"Dust unto dust, the mortal to the clod;But the high place, the altar that has shrinedThine image,—spare, O God!Thought, the grand link from human life to Thee,The humble reed that by the Shadowy RiverResponds in music to the melodyOf spheres that hymn for ever,—The order of the mystic world within,The airy girth of all things near and far;Sense, though of sorrow,—memory, though of sin,—Gleams through the dungeon bar,—Vouchsafe me to the last!—Though none may markThe solemn pang, nor soothe the parting breath,Still let me seek for God amid the dark,And face, unblinded, Death!Whence is this fine distinction twixt the twainRays of the Maker in the lamp of claySpirit and Mind?—strike the material brain,And soul seems hurl'd away.Touch but a nerve, and Brutus is a slave;A nerve, and Plato drivels! Was it mind,Or soul, that taught the wise one in the cave,The freeman in the wind?If mind—O Soul! what is thy task on earth?If soul! O wherefore can a touch destroy,Or lock in Lethé's Acherontian dearth,The Immortal's grief and joy?Hark, how a child can babble of the cellsWherein, beneath the perishable brow,Fancy invents, and Memory chronicles,And Reason asks—as now:Mapp'd are the known dominions of the thought,But who shall find the palace of the soul?Along what channels shall the source be sought,The well-spring of the whole?Look round, vain questioner,—all space survey,Where'er thou lookest, lo, how clear is Mind!The laws that part the darkness from the day,And the sweet Pleïads bind,The thought, the will, the art, the elaborate powerOf the Great Cause from whence the All began,Gaze on the star, or bend above the flower,Still speak of Mind to man.But the arch soul of soul—from which the lawIs but the shadow, who on earth can see?What guess cleaves upward through the deeps of awe,Unspeakable, to thee?As in Creation lives the Father Soul,So lives the soul He breathed amidst the clay;Round it the thoughts on starry axles roll,Life flows and ebbs away.If chaos smote the universe again,And new Chaldeans shudder'd to exploreAmidst the maddening elements in vainThe harmonious Mind of yore,Would not God live the same?—the Unseen Spirit,Whether that life or wills or wrecks Creation?—So lives, distinct, the god-spark we inherit,When Mind is desolation.
Hark! the awe-whisperd'd prayer, "God spare my mind!"Dust unto dust, the mortal to the clod;But the high place, the altar that has shrinedThine image,—spare, O God!
Thought, the grand link from human life to Thee,The humble reed that by the Shadowy RiverResponds in music to the melodyOf spheres that hymn for ever,—
The order of the mystic world within,The airy girth of all things near and far;Sense, though of sorrow,—memory, though of sin,—Gleams through the dungeon bar,—
Vouchsafe me to the last!—Though none may markThe solemn pang, nor soothe the parting breath,Still let me seek for God amid the dark,And face, unblinded, Death!
Whence is this fine distinction twixt the twainRays of the Maker in the lamp of claySpirit and Mind?—strike the material brain,And soul seems hurl'd away.
Touch but a nerve, and Brutus is a slave;A nerve, and Plato drivels! Was it mind,Or soul, that taught the wise one in the cave,The freeman in the wind?
If mind—O Soul! what is thy task on earth?If soul! O wherefore can a touch destroy,Or lock in Lethé's Acherontian dearth,The Immortal's grief and joy?
Hark, how a child can babble of the cellsWherein, beneath the perishable brow,Fancy invents, and Memory chronicles,And Reason asks—as now:
Mapp'd are the known dominions of the thought,But who shall find the palace of the soul?Along what channels shall the source be sought,The well-spring of the whole?
Look round, vain questioner,—all space survey,Where'er thou lookest, lo, how clear is Mind!The laws that part the darkness from the day,And the sweet Pleïads bind,
The thought, the will, the art, the elaborate powerOf the Great Cause from whence the All began,Gaze on the star, or bend above the flower,Still speak of Mind to man.
But the arch soul of soul—from which the lawIs but the shadow, who on earth can see?What guess cleaves upward through the deeps of awe,Unspeakable, to thee?
As in Creation lives the Father Soul,So lives the soul He breathed amidst the clay;Round it the thoughts on starry axles roll,Life flows and ebbs away.
If chaos smote the universe again,And new Chaldeans shudder'd to exploreAmidst the maddening elements in vainThe harmonious Mind of yore,
Would not God live the same?—the Unseen Spirit,Whether that life or wills or wrecks Creation?—So lives, distinct, the god-spark we inherit,When Mind is desolation.
From Heaven what fancy stoleThe dream of some good spirit, aye at hand,The seraph whispering to the exile soulTales of its native land?Who to the cradle gaveThe unseen watcher by the mother's side,Born with the birth, companion to the grave,The holy angel-guide?Is it a fable?—"No,"I hearLoveanswer from the sunlit air,"Still wheremypresence gilds the darkness—knowLife's angel-guide is there?"Is it a fable?—Hark,Faithhymns from deeps beyond the palest star,"Iam the pilot to thy wandering bark,Thy guide to shores afar."Is it a fable?—sweetFrom wave, from air, from every forest tree,The murmur spoke, "Each thing thine eyes can greetAn angel-guide can be."From myriads take thy choice,In all that lives a guide to God is given;Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voiceWhen Nature speaks of Heaven!"
From Heaven what fancy stoleThe dream of some good spirit, aye at hand,The seraph whispering to the exile soulTales of its native land?
Who to the cradle gaveThe unseen watcher by the mother's side,Born with the birth, companion to the grave,The holy angel-guide?
Is it a fable?—"No,"I hearLoveanswer from the sunlit air,"Still wheremypresence gilds the darkness—knowLife's angel-guide is there?"
Is it a fable?—Hark,Faithhymns from deeps beyond the palest star,"Iam the pilot to thy wandering bark,Thy guide to shores afar."
Is it a fable?—sweetFrom wave, from air, from every forest tree,The murmur spoke, "Each thing thine eyes can greetAn angel-guide can be.
"From myriads take thy choice,In all that lives a guide to God is given;Ever thou hear'st some angel guardian's voiceWhen Nature speaks of Heaven!"
Nay, soother, do not dream thine artCan altar Nature's stern decree;Or give me back the younger heart,Whose tablets had been clear to thee.Why seek, fair child, to pierce the darkThat wraps the giant wrecks of old?Thou wert not with me in the ark,When o'er my life the deluge roll'd.To thee, reclining by the verge,The careless waves in music flowTo me the ripple sighs the dirgeOf my lost native world below.Her tranquil arch as Iris buildsAbove the Anio's torrent roar,Thy life is in the life it gilds,Born of the wave it trembles o'er.For thee a glory leaves the skiesIf from thy side a step depart;Thy sunlight beams from human eyes,Thy world is in one human heart.And in the woman's simple creedSince first the helpmate's task began,Thou ask'st what more than love should needThe stern insatiate soul of Man.No more, while youth with vernal galeBreathes o'er the brief Arcadia still;—But when the Wanderer quits the vale,But when the footstep scales the hill,But when with awe the wide expanse,The Pilgrim's earnest eyes explore,How shrinks the land of sweet Romance,A speck—it was the world before!And, hark, the Dorian fifes succeedThe pastoral reeds of Arcady:Lo, where the Spartan meets the Mede,Near Tempé lies—Thermopylé!Each onward step in hardy life,Each scene that memory halts to scan,Demands the toil, records the strife,—And love but once is all to man.Weep'st thou, fair infant, wherefore weep?Long ages since the Persian sung"The zephyr to the rose should keep,And youth should only love the young."Ay, lift those chiding eyes of thine;The trite, ungenerous moral scorn!The diamond's home is in the mine,The violet's birth beneath the thorn;There, purer light the diamond givesThan when to baubles shaped the ray;There, safe at least the violet livesFrom hands that clasp—to cast away.Bloom still beside the mournful heart,Light still the caves denied the star;Oh Eve, with Eden pleased to part,Since Eden needs no comforter!My soft Arcadian, from thy bowerI hear thy music on the hill;And bless the note for many an hourWhen I too—am Arcadian still.Whene'er the face of Heaven appears,As kind as once it smiled on me,I'll steal adown the mount of years,And come—a youth once more, to thee.From bitter grief and iron wrongWhen Memory sets her captive free,When joy is in the skylark's song,My blithesome steps shall bound to thee;When Thought, the storm-bird, shrinks beforeThe width of nature's clouded sea,A voice shall charm it home on shore,To share the halcyon's nest with thee:Lo, how the faithful verse escapesThe varying chime that laws decree,And, like my heart, attracted, shapesEach wandering fancy back—tothee.
Nay, soother, do not dream thine artCan altar Nature's stern decree;Or give me back the younger heart,Whose tablets had been clear to thee.
Why seek, fair child, to pierce the darkThat wraps the giant wrecks of old?Thou wert not with me in the ark,When o'er my life the deluge roll'd.
To thee, reclining by the verge,The careless waves in music flowTo me the ripple sighs the dirgeOf my lost native world below.
Her tranquil arch as Iris buildsAbove the Anio's torrent roar,Thy life is in the life it gilds,Born of the wave it trembles o'er.
For thee a glory leaves the skiesIf from thy side a step depart;Thy sunlight beams from human eyes,Thy world is in one human heart.
And in the woman's simple creedSince first the helpmate's task began,Thou ask'st what more than love should needThe stern insatiate soul of Man.
No more, while youth with vernal galeBreathes o'er the brief Arcadia still;—But when the Wanderer quits the vale,But when the footstep scales the hill,
But when with awe the wide expanse,The Pilgrim's earnest eyes explore,How shrinks the land of sweet Romance,A speck—it was the world before!
And, hark, the Dorian fifes succeedThe pastoral reeds of Arcady:Lo, where the Spartan meets the Mede,Near Tempé lies—Thermopylé!
Each onward step in hardy life,Each scene that memory halts to scan,Demands the toil, records the strife,—And love but once is all to man.
Weep'st thou, fair infant, wherefore weep?Long ages since the Persian sung"The zephyr to the rose should keep,And youth should only love the young."
Ay, lift those chiding eyes of thine;The trite, ungenerous moral scorn!The diamond's home is in the mine,The violet's birth beneath the thorn;
There, purer light the diamond givesThan when to baubles shaped the ray;There, safe at least the violet livesFrom hands that clasp—to cast away.
Bloom still beside the mournful heart,Light still the caves denied the star;Oh Eve, with Eden pleased to part,Since Eden needs no comforter!
My soft Arcadian, from thy bowerI hear thy music on the hill;And bless the note for many an hourWhen I too—am Arcadian still.
Whene'er the face of Heaven appears,As kind as once it smiled on me,I'll steal adown the mount of years,And come—a youth once more, to thee.
From bitter grief and iron wrongWhen Memory sets her captive free,When joy is in the skylark's song,My blithesome steps shall bound to thee;
When Thought, the storm-bird, shrinks beforeThe width of nature's clouded sea,A voice shall charm it home on shore,To share the halcyon's nest with thee:
Lo, how the faithful verse escapesThe varying chime that laws decree,And, like my heart, attracted, shapesEach wandering fancy back—tothee.
Methought I stood amidst a burial-placeAnd saw a phantom ply the sexton's trade,Pale o'er the charnel bow'd the phantom's face,Noiseless the phantom spadeGleam'd in the stars.Wondering I ask'd, "Whose grave dost thou prepare?"The labouring ghost disdainful paused and said,"To dig the grave is Death my father's care,I disinter the deadUnder the stars."Therewith he cast a skull before my feet,A skull with worms encircled, and a crown,And mouldering shreds of Beauty's winding-sheet.Chilling and cheerless downShimmer'd the stars."And of the Past," I sigh'd, "are these aloneThe things disburied? spare the dread repose,Or bring once more the monarch to his throne,To Beauty's cheek the rose."Cloud wrapt the stars,While the pale sexton answer'd, "Fool, away!Thou ask'st of Memory that which Faith must give;Mine is the task to disinter the clay,Hers to bid life revive,"—Cloud left the stars.
Methought I stood amidst a burial-placeAnd saw a phantom ply the sexton's trade,Pale o'er the charnel bow'd the phantom's face,Noiseless the phantom spadeGleam'd in the stars.
Wondering I ask'd, "Whose grave dost thou prepare?"The labouring ghost disdainful paused and said,"To dig the grave is Death my father's care,I disinter the deadUnder the stars."
Therewith he cast a skull before my feet,A skull with worms encircled, and a crown,And mouldering shreds of Beauty's winding-sheet.Chilling and cheerless downShimmer'd the stars.
"And of the Past," I sigh'd, "are these aloneThe things disburied? spare the dread repose,Or bring once more the monarch to his throne,To Beauty's cheek the rose."Cloud wrapt the stars,
While the pale sexton answer'd, "Fool, away!Thou ask'st of Memory that which Faith must give;Mine is the task to disinter the clay,Hers to bid life revive,"—Cloud left the stars.
An idyll scene of happy Sicily!Out from its sacred grove on grassy slopesSmiles a fair temple, vow'd to some sweet PowerOf Nature deified. In broad degreesFrom flower-wreath'd porticos the shining stairs,Through tiers of Myrtle in Corinthian urns,Glide to the shimmer of an argent lake.Calm rest the swans upon the glassy wave,Save where the younger cygnets, newly-pair'd,Through floating brakes of water-lilies, sailSlowly in sunlight down to islets dim.But farther on, the lake subsides awayInto the lapsing of a shadowy rillMelodious with the chime of falls as sweetAs (heard by Pan in Arethusan glades)The silvery talk of meeting Naïades.Where cool the sunbeam slants through ilex-boughs,The fane above them and the rill below,Two forms recline; nor, e'er in ArcadyDid fairer Manhood win an Oread's love,Or lift diviner brows to earliest stars.The one of brighter hues, and darker curlsClustering and purple as the fruit o' the vine,Seem'd like that Summer-Idol of rich lifeWhom sensuous Greece, inebriate with delight,From Orient myth and symbol-worship broughtTo blue Cithæron blithe with bounding faunAnd wood-nymph wild,—Nature's young Lord, Iacchus!Bent o'er the sparkling brook, with careless handFrom sedge or sward, he pluck'd or reed or flower,Casting away light wreaths on playful waves;While,—as the curious ripple murmur'd roundIts odorous prey, and eddying whirl'd it onO'er pebbles glancing sheen to sunny falls,—He laugh'd, as childhood laughs, in such frank gleeThe very leaves upon the ilex dancedJoyous, as at some mirthful wind in May.The other, though the younger, more serene,And to the casual gaze severer far,To that bright comrade-shape; by contrast seem'dAs serious Morn, star-crown'd on Spartan hills,To Noon, when hyacinths flush through Enna's vales,Or murmurous winglets hum 'mid Indian palms.Such beauty his as the first Dorian boreFrom the far birthplace of Homeric men,Beyond the steeps of Boreal Thessaly,When to the swart Pelasgic AutocthonThe blue-eyed Pallas came with lifted spear,And, her twin type of the fair-featured North.Phœbus, the archer with the golden hair.Bright was the one as Syrian Adon-ai,Charming the goddess born from roseate seas;And while the other, leaning on his lyre,Lifted the azure light of earnest eyesFrom flower and wave to the remotest hillOn which the soft horizon melted down,Ev'n so methought had gazed Endymion,With looks estranged from the luxuriant day,To the far Latmos steep—where holy dreamsNightly renew'd the kisses of the Moon.Entranced I stood, and held my breath to hearThe words that seem'd to warm upon their lips,As if such contest as two NightingalesWage, emulous in music, on the peaceThat surely dwelt between them, had anonForced its mellifluous anger:—Then I learn'dThat the fair Two were orphans, rear'd to youthSong and the lyre, where ringdoves coo remote,And loitering bees cull sweets in Hyblan dells:And that their discord, as their union, grewOut of their rivalry in lyre and song.Therewith did each in the accustom'd warOf pastoral singers in Sicilian noonsStrive for his Right—(O Memory aid me now!)In the sweet quarrel of alternate hymns.
An idyll scene of happy Sicily!Out from its sacred grove on grassy slopesSmiles a fair temple, vow'd to some sweet PowerOf Nature deified. In broad degreesFrom flower-wreath'd porticos the shining stairs,Through tiers of Myrtle in Corinthian urns,Glide to the shimmer of an argent lake.Calm rest the swans upon the glassy wave,Save where the younger cygnets, newly-pair'd,Through floating brakes of water-lilies, sailSlowly in sunlight down to islets dim.But farther on, the lake subsides awayInto the lapsing of a shadowy rillMelodious with the chime of falls as sweetAs (heard by Pan in Arethusan glades)The silvery talk of meeting Naïades.
Where cool the sunbeam slants through ilex-boughs,The fane above them and the rill below,Two forms recline; nor, e'er in ArcadyDid fairer Manhood win an Oread's love,Or lift diviner brows to earliest stars.
The one of brighter hues, and darker curlsClustering and purple as the fruit o' the vine,Seem'd like that Summer-Idol of rich lifeWhom sensuous Greece, inebriate with delight,From Orient myth and symbol-worship broughtTo blue Cithæron blithe with bounding faunAnd wood-nymph wild,—Nature's young Lord, Iacchus!Bent o'er the sparkling brook, with careless handFrom sedge or sward, he pluck'd or reed or flower,Casting away light wreaths on playful waves;While,—as the curious ripple murmur'd roundIts odorous prey, and eddying whirl'd it onO'er pebbles glancing sheen to sunny falls,—He laugh'd, as childhood laughs, in such frank gleeThe very leaves upon the ilex dancedJoyous, as at some mirthful wind in May.
The other, though the younger, more serene,And to the casual gaze severer far,To that bright comrade-shape; by contrast seem'dAs serious Morn, star-crown'd on Spartan hills,To Noon, when hyacinths flush through Enna's vales,Or murmurous winglets hum 'mid Indian palms.Such beauty his as the first Dorian boreFrom the far birthplace of Homeric men,Beyond the steeps of Boreal Thessaly,When to the swart Pelasgic AutocthonThe blue-eyed Pallas came with lifted spear,And, her twin type of the fair-featured North.Phœbus, the archer with the golden hair.Bright was the one as Syrian Adon-ai,Charming the goddess born from roseate seas;And while the other, leaning on his lyre,Lifted the azure light of earnest eyesFrom flower and wave to the remotest hillOn which the soft horizon melted down,Ev'n so methought had gazed Endymion,With looks estranged from the luxuriant day,To the far Latmos steep—where holy dreamsNightly renew'd the kisses of the Moon.
Entranced I stood, and held my breath to hearThe words that seem'd to warm upon their lips,As if such contest as two NightingalesWage, emulous in music, on the peaceThat surely dwelt between them, had anonForced its mellifluous anger:—
Then I learn'dThat the fair Two were orphans, rear'd to youthSong and the lyre, where ringdoves coo remote,And loitering bees cull sweets in Hyblan dells:And that their discord, as their union, grewOut of their rivalry in lyre and song.Therewith did each in the accustom'd warOf pastoral singers in Sicilian noonsStrive for his Right—(O Memory aid me now!)In the sweet quarrel of alternate hymns.
ANTHIOS.As the sunlight that plays on a stream,As the zephyr that rustles a leaf,On my soul comes the joy of the beam,And a zephyr can stir it to grief.Whether pleasure or pain be decreed,My voice but in music is heard;By the sunny wave murmurs the reed;From the sighing leaf carols the bird.—LYKEGENES.Unto her hierarch Nature's voices comeBut through the labyrinthine cells of Thought,Not at the Porch, doth Isis hold her home,Not to the Tyro are her mysteries taught;The secret dews of many a starry nightFeed the vast ocean's stately ebb and flow;The leaf is restless where the branch is slight,Still are the boughs whose shades stretch far below.ANTHIOS.As the skylark that mountsWith the dawn to the sun,As the flash from the fountsOf the swift Helicon,Song comes;—and I sing!Wouldst thou question me more?Ask the wave or the wingWhy it sparkle or soar!LYKEGENES.Full be the soul if swift the inspiration!The corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife;Song is the twin of golden ContemplationThe harvest-flower of life.The Cloud-compeller's bolt the eagle bears,But when the wings the strength divine have won,Full many a flight around the rock preparesThe Aspirer towards the Sun;Progressive heights to gradual effort given,Till, all the plumes in light supreme unfurl'd,It halts;—and knits unto the dome of heavenThis pendant ball—the World.ANTHIOS.Hail, O hail, Pierides,Free Harmonia's zoneless daughters,Whom abrupt the Mœnad seesBy the marge of moonlit waters,Weaving joy in choral measureTo no law but your sweet pleasure;Wanton winds in loosen'd hairLifting gold that gilds the air;Say, beneath what starry skiesLurk the herbs that purge the eyes?On what hill-tops should we cullThe moly of the Beautiful?What the charm the soul to captureIn the cestus-belt of rapture,When the senses, trembling under,Glass the Shadow-land of Wonder,And no human hand is stealingO'er the music-scale of Feeling?
ANTHIOS.As the sunlight that plays on a stream,As the zephyr that rustles a leaf,On my soul comes the joy of the beam,And a zephyr can stir it to grief.Whether pleasure or pain be decreed,My voice but in music is heard;By the sunny wave murmurs the reed;From the sighing leaf carols the bird.—LYKEGENES.Unto her hierarch Nature's voices comeBut through the labyrinthine cells of Thought,Not at the Porch, doth Isis hold her home,Not to the Tyro are her mysteries taught;The secret dews of many a starry nightFeed the vast ocean's stately ebb and flow;The leaf is restless where the branch is slight,Still are the boughs whose shades stretch far below.ANTHIOS.As the skylark that mountsWith the dawn to the sun,As the flash from the fountsOf the swift Helicon,Song comes;—and I sing!Wouldst thou question me more?Ask the wave or the wingWhy it sparkle or soar!LYKEGENES.Full be the soul if swift the inspiration!The corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife;Song is the twin of golden ContemplationThe harvest-flower of life.The Cloud-compeller's bolt the eagle bears,But when the wings the strength divine have won,Full many a flight around the rock preparesThe Aspirer towards the Sun;Progressive heights to gradual effort given,Till, all the plumes in light supreme unfurl'd,It halts;—and knits unto the dome of heavenThis pendant ball—the World.ANTHIOS.Hail, O hail, Pierides,Free Harmonia's zoneless daughters,Whom abrupt the Mœnad seesBy the marge of moonlit waters,Weaving joy in choral measureTo no law but your sweet pleasure;Wanton winds in loosen'd hairLifting gold that gilds the air;Say, beneath what starry skiesLurk the herbs that purge the eyes?On what hill-tops should we cullThe moly of the Beautiful?What the charm the soul to captureIn the cestus-belt of rapture,When the senses, trembling under,Glass the Shadow-land of Wonder,And no human hand is stealingO'er the music-scale of Feeling?
ANTHIOS.
As the sunlight that plays on a stream,As the zephyr that rustles a leaf,On my soul comes the joy of the beam,And a zephyr can stir it to grief.
Whether pleasure or pain be decreed,My voice but in music is heard;By the sunny wave murmurs the reed;From the sighing leaf carols the bird.—
LYKEGENES.
Unto her hierarch Nature's voices comeBut through the labyrinthine cells of Thought,Not at the Porch, doth Isis hold her home,Not to the Tyro are her mysteries taught;
The secret dews of many a starry nightFeed the vast ocean's stately ebb and flow;The leaf is restless where the branch is slight,Still are the boughs whose shades stretch far below.
ANTHIOS.
As the skylark that mountsWith the dawn to the sun,As the flash from the fountsOf the swift Helicon,
Song comes;—and I sing!Wouldst thou question me more?Ask the wave or the wingWhy it sparkle or soar!
LYKEGENES.
Full be the soul if swift the inspiration!The corn-flower opens as the sheaves are rife;Song is the twin of golden ContemplationThe harvest-flower of life.
The Cloud-compeller's bolt the eagle bears,But when the wings the strength divine have won,Full many a flight around the rock preparesThe Aspirer towards the Sun;
Progressive heights to gradual effort given,Till, all the plumes in light supreme unfurl'd,It halts;—and knits unto the dome of heavenThis pendant ball—the World.
ANTHIOS.
Hail, O hail, Pierides,Free Harmonia's zoneless daughters,Whom abrupt the Mœnad seesBy the marge of moonlit waters,
Weaving joy in choral measureTo no law but your sweet pleasure;Wanton winds in loosen'd hairLifting gold that gilds the air;
Say, beneath what starry skiesLurk the herbs that purge the eyes?On what hill-tops should we cullThe moly of the Beautiful?What the charm the soul to captureIn the cestus-belt of rapture,When the senses, trembling under,Glass the Shadow-land of Wonder,And no human hand is stealingO'er the music-scale of Feeling?
As ceased the question rose delicious windsStirring the waves that kiss'd the tuneful reeds,And all the wealth of sweets in bells of flowers;So that, methought, out from all life, the MuseMurmur'd responses low, and echo'd "Feeling!"
As ceased the question rose delicious windsStirring the waves that kiss'd the tuneful reeds,And all the wealth of sweets in bells of flowers;So that, methought, out from all life, the MuseMurmur'd responses low, and echo'd "Feeling!"
LYKEGENES.Divine Corycides,Whose chosen haunts are in mysterious cells,And alleys dim through gleaming laurel-treesDusking the shrine of Delphian oracles,—Under whose whispering shadeSits the lone Pythian Maid,Whose soul is as the glass of human things;While up from bubbling streamsIn mists arise the DreamsPale with the future of tiara'd kings—Say, what the charm which from ambrosial domesDraws the Immortal to Time's brazen towers,When on the soul the gentle Thunderer comes—Comes but in golden showers?When, through the sealèd portals of the sense,Fluent as air the Glory glides unsought;And the serene effulgent InfluenceRains all the wealth of heaven upon the thought?
LYKEGENES.Divine Corycides,Whose chosen haunts are in mysterious cells,And alleys dim through gleaming laurel-treesDusking the shrine of Delphian oracles,—Under whose whispering shadeSits the lone Pythian Maid,Whose soul is as the glass of human things;While up from bubbling streamsIn mists arise the DreamsPale with the future of tiara'd kings—Say, what the charm which from ambrosial domesDraws the Immortal to Time's brazen towers,When on the soul the gentle Thunderer comes—Comes but in golden showers?When, through the sealèd portals of the sense,Fluent as air the Glory glides unsought;And the serene effulgent InfluenceRains all the wealth of heaven upon the thought?
LYKEGENES.
Divine Corycides,Whose chosen haunts are in mysterious cells,And alleys dim through gleaming laurel-treesDusking the shrine of Delphian oracles,—Under whose whispering shadeSits the lone Pythian Maid,Whose soul is as the glass of human things;While up from bubbling streamsIn mists arise the DreamsPale with the future of tiara'd kings—Say, what the charm which from ambrosial domesDraws the Immortal to Time's brazen towers,When on the soul the gentle Thunderer comes—Comes but in golden showers?When, through the sealèd portals of the sense,Fluent as air the Glory glides unsought;And the serene effulgent InfluenceRains all the wealth of heaven upon the thought?
And as the questions ceased, fell every wind.The ilex-boughs droop'd heavy as the hushIn which the prophet Doves brood weird and calmAmid Dodonian groves;—the broken lightOn crispèd waves grew smooth; on earth, in heaven,The inexpressive majesty of SilencePass'd as some Orient sovereign to his throne,When all the murmurs cease, and every browBends down in awe, and not a breath is heard.Yet spoke that stillness of the Eternal MindThat thinks, and, thinking, evermore creates;And Nature seem'd to answer PoesyFrom her deep heart, in thought re-echoing "Thought."
And as the questions ceased, fell every wind.The ilex-boughs droop'd heavy as the hushIn which the prophet Doves brood weird and calmAmid Dodonian groves;—the broken lightOn crispèd waves grew smooth; on earth, in heaven,The inexpressive majesty of SilencePass'd as some Orient sovereign to his throne,When all the murmurs cease, and every browBends down in awe, and not a breath is heard.Yet spoke that stillness of the Eternal MindThat thinks, and, thinking, evermore creates;And Nature seem'd to answer PoesyFrom her deep heart, in thought re-echoing "Thought."
ANTHIOS.Thou, whose silver lute contendedWith the careless reed of Pan—Thou whose wanton youth descendedTo the vales Arcadian,At whose coming heavenlier joyLighteth even Jove's abode,Ever blooming as the boyThrough thine ages as the god;Fair Apollo, if the singerBe like thee the gladness-bringer;If the nectar he distilMake the worn earth useful still;As thyself when thou wert drivenTo the Tempè from the heaven,As the infant over whomSaturn bends his brows of gloom,Roves he not the world a-maying,From his Idan halls exiled;Or with Time repose in playingAs with Saturn's looks the child.
ANTHIOS.Thou, whose silver lute contendedWith the careless reed of Pan—Thou whose wanton youth descendedTo the vales Arcadian,At whose coming heavenlier joyLighteth even Jove's abode,Ever blooming as the boyThrough thine ages as the god;Fair Apollo, if the singerBe like thee the gladness-bringer;If the nectar he distilMake the worn earth useful still;As thyself when thou wert drivenTo the Tempè from the heaven,As the infant over whomSaturn bends his brows of gloom,Roves he not the world a-maying,From his Idan halls exiled;Or with Time repose in playingAs with Saturn's looks the child.
ANTHIOS.
Thou, whose silver lute contendedWith the careless reed of Pan—Thou whose wanton youth descendedTo the vales Arcadian,At whose coming heavenlier joyLighteth even Jove's abode,Ever blooming as the boyThrough thine ages as the god;Fair Apollo, if the singerBe like thee the gladness-bringer;If the nectar he distilMake the worn earth useful still;As thyself when thou wert drivenTo the Tempè from the heaven,As the infant over whomSaturn bends his brows of gloom,Roves he not the world a-maying,From his Idan halls exiled;Or with Time repose in playingAs with Saturn's looks the child.
Therewith from far, where unseen hamlets layIn wooded valleys green, came mellowlyLaughter and infant voices, borne perchanceFrom the light hearts of happy Children, sportingRound some meek Mother's knee;—ev'n so, methoughtDid the familiar, human, innocent, gladnessThrough golden Childhood answer Song, "The Child."
Therewith from far, where unseen hamlets layIn wooded valleys green, came mellowlyLaughter and infant voices, borne perchanceFrom the light hearts of happy Children, sportingRound some meek Mother's knee;—ev'n so, methoughtDid the familiar, human, innocent, gladnessThrough golden Childhood answer Song, "The Child."
LYKEGENES.Lord of lustrating streams,And altars pure, appalling secret Crime,Eternal Splendour, whose all-searching beamsIllume with life the universe of Time,All our own fates thy shrine reveals to us;Thither comes Wisdom from the thrones of earth,The unraveller of the sphinx—blind Œdipus,Who knows not ev'n his birth!On whom, Apollo, does thy presence shineThrough the clear daylight of translucent song?Only to him who serveth at the shrine,The priesthood can belong!After due and deep probation,Only dawns thy revelationUnto the devout beseecherTaught by thee to grow the teacher:Shall the bearer of thy bowLet the shafts at random go?If the altar be divine,Is the sacrifice a feast?Should our hands the garland twineFor the reveller or the priest?
LYKEGENES.Lord of lustrating streams,And altars pure, appalling secret Crime,Eternal Splendour, whose all-searching beamsIllume with life the universe of Time,All our own fates thy shrine reveals to us;Thither comes Wisdom from the thrones of earth,The unraveller of the sphinx—blind Œdipus,Who knows not ev'n his birth!On whom, Apollo, does thy presence shineThrough the clear daylight of translucent song?Only to him who serveth at the shrine,The priesthood can belong!After due and deep probation,Only dawns thy revelationUnto the devout beseecherTaught by thee to grow the teacher:Shall the bearer of thy bowLet the shafts at random go?If the altar be divine,Is the sacrifice a feast?Should our hands the garland twineFor the reveller or the priest?
LYKEGENES.
Lord of lustrating streams,And altars pure, appalling secret Crime,Eternal Splendour, whose all-searching beamsIllume with life the universe of Time,All our own fates thy shrine reveals to us;Thither comes Wisdom from the thrones of earth,The unraveller of the sphinx—blind Œdipus,Who knows not ev'n his birth!On whom, Apollo, does thy presence shineThrough the clear daylight of translucent song?Only to him who serveth at the shrine,The priesthood can belong!After due and deep probation,Only dawns thy revelationUnto the devout beseecherTaught by thee to grow the teacher:Shall the bearer of thy bowLet the shafts at random go?If the altar be divine,Is the sacrifice a feast?Should our hands the garland twineFor the reveller or the priest?
Therewith from out the temple on the hillBroke the rich swell of fifes and choral lyres,And the long melody of such large hymns,As to the conquest of the Python-slayer,Hallow'd thy lofty chant, Calliopé!Thus from the penetralian aisles divineThe solemn God replied to Song, "The Priest."
Therewith from out the temple on the hillBroke the rich swell of fifes and choral lyres,And the long melody of such large hymns,As to the conquest of the Python-slayer,Hallow'd thy lofty chant, Calliopé!Thus from the penetralian aisles divineThe solemn God replied to Song, "The Priest."
ANTHIOS.And who can bind in formal dutyThe Protean shapes of airy Beauty?Who tune the Teian's lyre of goldTo priestly hymns in temples cold?Accept the playmate by thy side,Ordain'd to charm thee, not to guide.The stream reflects each curve on shore,And Song alike thy good and error;Let Wisdom be the monitor,But Song should be the mirror.To truth direct while Science goesWith measured pace and sober eye;The simplest wild-flower more bestowsThan Egypt's lore, on Poesy.The Magian seer who counts the stars,Regrets the cloud that veils his skies;To me, the Greek, the clouds are carsFrom which bend down divinities!Like cloud itself this common dayLet Fancy make awhile the duller,Its iris in the cloud shall play,And weave thy world the pomp of colour.
ANTHIOS.And who can bind in formal dutyThe Protean shapes of airy Beauty?Who tune the Teian's lyre of goldTo priestly hymns in temples cold?Accept the playmate by thy side,Ordain'd to charm thee, not to guide.The stream reflects each curve on shore,And Song alike thy good and error;Let Wisdom be the monitor,But Song should be the mirror.To truth direct while Science goesWith measured pace and sober eye;The simplest wild-flower more bestowsThan Egypt's lore, on Poesy.The Magian seer who counts the stars,Regrets the cloud that veils his skies;To me, the Greek, the clouds are carsFrom which bend down divinities!Like cloud itself this common dayLet Fancy make awhile the duller,Its iris in the cloud shall play,And weave thy world the pomp of colour.
ANTHIOS.
And who can bind in formal dutyThe Protean shapes of airy Beauty?Who tune the Teian's lyre of goldTo priestly hymns in temples cold?Accept the playmate by thy side,Ordain'd to charm thee, not to guide.The stream reflects each curve on shore,And Song alike thy good and error;Let Wisdom be the monitor,But Song should be the mirror.To truth direct while Science goesWith measured pace and sober eye;The simplest wild-flower more bestowsThan Egypt's lore, on Poesy.
The Magian seer who counts the stars,Regrets the cloud that veils his skies;To me, the Greek, the clouds are carsFrom which bend down divinities!
Like cloud itself this common dayLet Fancy make awhile the duller,Its iris in the cloud shall play,And weave thy world the pomp of colour.
He paused; as if in concord with the SongSeem'd to flash forth the universe of huesIn the Sicilian summer: on the banksCrocus, and hyacinth, and anemoné,Superb narcissus, Cytherea's rose,And woodbine lush, and lilies silver-starr'd;And delicate cloudlets blush'd in lucent skies;And yellowing sunbeams shot through purple waves;And still from bough to bough the wings of birds,And still from flower to flower the gorgeous dyesOf the gay insect-revellers wandering went—And as I look'd I murmur'd, "Singer, yes,Ascolourto the world, so song to life!"
He paused; as if in concord with the SongSeem'd to flash forth the universe of huesIn the Sicilian summer: on the banksCrocus, and hyacinth, and anemoné,Superb narcissus, Cytherea's rose,And woodbine lush, and lilies silver-starr'd;And delicate cloudlets blush'd in lucent skies;And yellowing sunbeams shot through purple waves;And still from bough to bough the wings of birds,And still from flower to flower the gorgeous dyesOf the gay insect-revellers wandering went—And as I look'd I murmur'd, "Singer, yes,Ascolourto the world, so song to life!"
LYKEGENES.Conceal'd from Saturn's deathful frownThe wild Curetes strove,By chant and cymbal clash, to drownThe infant cries of Jove.But when, full-grown, the Thunder-king,Triumphant o'er the Titan's fall,And throned in Ida, look'd on all,And all subjected saw;Saw the sublime Uranian Ring,And every joyous living thing,Calm'd into love beneath his tranquil law;—Then straight above, below, around,His voice was heard in every sound;The mountain peal'd it through the cave;The whirlwind to the answering wave;By loneliest stream, by deepest dell,It murmur'd in mysterious Pan;No less than in the golden shellFrom which the falls of music wellO'er floors Olympian!For Jove in all that breathes must dwell,And speak through all to Man.Singer, who asketh Hermes for his rod,To lead men's souls into Elysian bowers,To whose belief the alter'd earth is trodStill by Kronidian Powers,If through thy veins the purer tide hath beenPour'd from the nectar-streams in Hebé's urn,That thou mightst both without thee and withinFeel the pervading Jove—wouldst thou returnTo the dark time of old,When Earth-born Force the Heir of Heaven controll'd,And with thy tinkling brass aspireTo stifle Nature's music-choir,And drown the voice of God?O Light, thou poetry of Heaven,That glid'st through hollow air thy way,That fill'st the starry founts of Even,And all the azure seas of Day;Give to my song thy glorious flow,That while it glads it may illume,Whether it gild the iris' bow,And part its rays amid the gloom;Or whether, one broad tranquil stream,It break in no fantastic dyes,But calmly weaving beam on beam,Make Heaven distinct to human eyes;A truth that floats serene and clear,'Twixt Gods and men an atmosphere;Less seen itself than bringing all to sight,And to man's soul what to man's world is Light.
LYKEGENES.Conceal'd from Saturn's deathful frownThe wild Curetes strove,By chant and cymbal clash, to drownThe infant cries of Jove.But when, full-grown, the Thunder-king,Triumphant o'er the Titan's fall,And throned in Ida, look'd on all,And all subjected saw;Saw the sublime Uranian Ring,And every joyous living thing,Calm'd into love beneath his tranquil law;—Then straight above, below, around,His voice was heard in every sound;The mountain peal'd it through the cave;The whirlwind to the answering wave;By loneliest stream, by deepest dell,It murmur'd in mysterious Pan;No less than in the golden shellFrom which the falls of music wellO'er floors Olympian!For Jove in all that breathes must dwell,And speak through all to Man.Singer, who asketh Hermes for his rod,To lead men's souls into Elysian bowers,To whose belief the alter'd earth is trodStill by Kronidian Powers,If through thy veins the purer tide hath beenPour'd from the nectar-streams in Hebé's urn,That thou mightst both without thee and withinFeel the pervading Jove—wouldst thou returnTo the dark time of old,When Earth-born Force the Heir of Heaven controll'd,And with thy tinkling brass aspireTo stifle Nature's music-choir,And drown the voice of God?O Light, thou poetry of Heaven,That glid'st through hollow air thy way,That fill'st the starry founts of Even,And all the azure seas of Day;Give to my song thy glorious flow,That while it glads it may illume,Whether it gild the iris' bow,And part its rays amid the gloom;Or whether, one broad tranquil stream,It break in no fantastic dyes,But calmly weaving beam on beam,Make Heaven distinct to human eyes;A truth that floats serene and clear,'Twixt Gods and men an atmosphere;Less seen itself than bringing all to sight,And to man's soul what to man's world is Light.
LYKEGENES.
Conceal'd from Saturn's deathful frownThe wild Curetes strove,By chant and cymbal clash, to drownThe infant cries of Jove.But when, full-grown, the Thunder-king,Triumphant o'er the Titan's fall,And throned in Ida, look'd on all,And all subjected saw;Saw the sublime Uranian Ring,And every joyous living thing,Calm'd into love beneath his tranquil law;—Then straight above, below, around,His voice was heard in every sound;The mountain peal'd it through the cave;The whirlwind to the answering wave;By loneliest stream, by deepest dell,It murmur'd in mysterious Pan;No less than in the golden shellFrom which the falls of music wellO'er floors Olympian!For Jove in all that breathes must dwell,And speak through all to Man.
Singer, who asketh Hermes for his rod,To lead men's souls into Elysian bowers,To whose belief the alter'd earth is trodStill by Kronidian Powers,If through thy veins the purer tide hath beenPour'd from the nectar-streams in Hebé's urn,That thou mightst both without thee and withinFeel the pervading Jove—wouldst thou returnTo the dark time of old,When Earth-born Force the Heir of Heaven controll'd,And with thy tinkling brass aspireTo stifle Nature's music-choir,And drown the voice of God?
O Light, thou poetry of Heaven,That glid'st through hollow air thy way,That fill'st the starry founts of Even,And all the azure seas of Day;Give to my song thy glorious flow,That while it glads it may illume,Whether it gild the iris' bow,And part its rays amid the gloom;Or whether, one broad tranquil stream,It break in no fantastic dyes,But calmly weaving beam on beam,Make Heaven distinct to human eyes;A truth that floats serene and clear,'Twixt Gods and men an atmosphere;Less seen itself than bringing all to sight,And to man's soul what to man's world is Light.
Then, as the Singer ceased, the western sunHalted a moment o'er the roseate hillHush'd in pellucent air; and all the crestsOf the still groves, and all the undulous curvesOf far-off headlands stood distinctly softAgainst the unfathomable purple skies,And linking in my thought the outward showsOf Beauty with the inward types sublime,By which through Beauty poets lead to Knowledge,And are the lamps of Nature,"Yes," I murmur'd,"Song is to soul what unto life isLight!"But gliding now behind the steeps it flush'd,The disk of day sunk gradual, gradual down,And in the homage of the old ReligionTo the departing Sun,—the rival twoCeased their dispute, and bent sweet serious browsIn chorus with the cusps of bended flowers,Sighing their joint "Farewell, O golden Sun!"Now Hesper came, the gentle shepherd-star,Bright as when Moschus sung to it;—alongThe sacred grove, and through the Parian shaftsOf the pale temple, shot the glistening rays,And trembled in the tremor of the wave:—Then the fair rivals, as they silent rose,Turn'd each to each in brotherlike embrace;Lone amid starry solitude they stood,In equal beauty clasp'd,—andbothdivine.[D]
Then, as the Singer ceased, the western sunHalted a moment o'er the roseate hillHush'd in pellucent air; and all the crestsOf the still groves, and all the undulous curvesOf far-off headlands stood distinctly softAgainst the unfathomable purple skies,And linking in my thought the outward showsOf Beauty with the inward types sublime,By which through Beauty poets lead to Knowledge,And are the lamps of Nature,"Yes," I murmur'd,"Song is to soul what unto life isLight!"
But gliding now behind the steeps it flush'd,The disk of day sunk gradual, gradual down,And in the homage of the old ReligionTo the departing Sun,—the rival twoCeased their dispute, and bent sweet serious browsIn chorus with the cusps of bended flowers,Sighing their joint "Farewell, O golden Sun!"Now Hesper came, the gentle shepherd-star,Bright as when Moschus sung to it;—alongThe sacred grove, and through the Parian shaftsOf the pale temple, shot the glistening rays,And trembled in the tremor of the wave:—Then the fair rivals, as they silent rose,Turn'd each to each in brotherlike embrace;Lone amid starry solitude they stood,In equal beauty clasp'd,—andbothdivine.[D]
"When Ganymede was caught up to Heaven, he let fall his pipe, on which he was playing to his sheep."—Alexander Ross,Myst. Poet.
"When Ganymede was caught up to Heaven, he let fall his pipe, on which he was playing to his sheep."—Alexander Ross,Myst. Poet.
Upon the Phrygian hillHe sate, and on his reed the shepherd play'd.Sunlight and calm: noon in the dreamy glade,Noon on the lulling rill.He saw not, where on highThe noiseless eagle of the Heavenly KingRested,—till rapt upon the rushing wingInto the golden sky.When the bright Nectar HallAnd the still brows of bended gods he saw,In the quick instinct both of shame and aweHis hand the reed let fall.Soul! that a thought divineBears into heaven,—thy first ascent survey!What charm'd thee most on earth is cast away;—To soar—is to resign!
Upon the Phrygian hillHe sate, and on his reed the shepherd play'd.Sunlight and calm: noon in the dreamy glade,Noon on the lulling rill.
He saw not, where on highThe noiseless eagle of the Heavenly KingRested,—till rapt upon the rushing wingInto the golden sky.
When the bright Nectar HallAnd the still brows of bended gods he saw,In the quick instinct both of shame and aweHis hand the reed let fall.
Soul! that a thought divineBears into heaven,—thy first ascent survey!What charm'd thee most on earth is cast away;—To soar—is to resign!
Where Morning first appears,Waking the rathe flowers in their Eastern bed,Aurora still with her ambrosial tears,Weeps for her Memnon dead.Him the HesperidesNursed on the marge of their enchanted shore,And still the smile that then the Mother woreDimples the orient seas.He died; and lo, the whileThe fire consumed his ashes, glorious thingsWith joyous songs, and rainbow-tinted wings,Rose from the funeral pile.He died; and yet becameA music; and his Theban image brokeInto sweet sounds that with each sunrise spokeThe Mighty Mother's name.O type, thy truth declare!Who is the Child of the Melodious Morn?Who bids the ashes earth receives—adornWith new-born choirs the air?What can the Statue beThat ever answers with enchanted voicesEach rising sun that on its front rejoices?Speak!—"I am Poetry!"
Where Morning first appears,Waking the rathe flowers in their Eastern bed,Aurora still with her ambrosial tears,Weeps for her Memnon dead.
Him the HesperidesNursed on the marge of their enchanted shore,And still the smile that then the Mother woreDimples the orient seas.
He died; and lo, the whileThe fire consumed his ashes, glorious thingsWith joyous songs, and rainbow-tinted wings,Rose from the funeral pile.
He died; and yet becameA music; and his Theban image brokeInto sweet sounds that with each sunrise spokeThe Mighty Mother's name.
O type, thy truth declare!Who is the Child of the Melodious Morn?Who bids the ashes earth receives—adornWith new-born choirs the air?
What can the Statue beThat ever answers with enchanted voicesEach rising sun that on its front rejoices?Speak!—"I am Poetry!"
Upon a barren steep,Above a stormy deep,I saw an Angel watching the wild sea;Earth was that barren steep,Time was that stormy deep,And the opposing shore—Eternity!"Why dost thou watch the wave?Thy feet the waters lave,The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay.""Unscathed I watch the wave,Time not the Angel's grave,I wait until the ocean ebbs away."Hush'd on the Angel's breastI saw an Infant rest,Smiling upon the gloomy hell below."What is the Infant press'd,O Angel, to thy breast?""The child God gave me, in The Long Ago."Mine all upon the earth,The Angel's angel-birth,Smiling each terror from the howling wild."Never may I forgetThe dream that haunts me yet,Of Patience nursing Hope—the Angel and the Child
Upon a barren steep,Above a stormy deep,I saw an Angel watching the wild sea;Earth was that barren steep,Time was that stormy deep,And the opposing shore—Eternity!
"Why dost thou watch the wave?Thy feet the waters lave,The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay.""Unscathed I watch the wave,Time not the Angel's grave,I wait until the ocean ebbs away."
Hush'd on the Angel's breastI saw an Infant rest,Smiling upon the gloomy hell below."What is the Infant press'd,O Angel, to thy breast?""The child God gave me, in The Long Ago.
"Mine all upon the earth,The Angel's angel-birth,Smiling each terror from the howling wild."Never may I forgetThe dream that haunts me yet,Of Patience nursing Hope—the Angel and the Child