And when, in the mid skies
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, Reposing as he lies,
With all his flock around,
He witches the still air with modulated sound.
From his sweet lute flow forth
Immortal harmonies of power to still
All passions born of earth,
And draw the ardent will
Its destiny of goodness to fulfill.
Might but a little part,
A wandering breath of that high melody,
Descend into my heart,
And change it, till it be
Transformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee;
Ah then my soul should know,
Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,
And from this place of woe
Released, should take its way
To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.
"T is a fair scene;-the few clouds, dark and dun, That lie like islets in the glorious west,
Are streaked with flame, as the broad setting sun
Sinks slowly to his golden hall of rest;
While his slant rays throw o'er the ocean's breast
Bright threads of silver, and the flashing spray
Seems set with jewels, like the bridal vest
Of proud Sultana. Bright is the array,
When thus, in quiet pomp, goes slowly down the day.
Winds gentle as the watching mother's prayer,
Come o'er the waters, as they sink and swell
With buoyant motion, such as heaves the fair
Breast of the cradled infant, when the spell
Is broke, that locks the thoughts in memory's cell.
Hither the secret worshipper alone
Might come to pray, and here might hermit dwell;
Centuries have wreathed the moss-crown round the stone, And flowers here spring and fade, unnoticed, and unknown.
There is no sign of life within the shore's
Wide circuit, save that now and then his cry
The wheeling curlew on the breeze outpours,
Or far away, where mingle earth and sky,
A small sail, dim in distance, passes by,
Like some proud eagle, on his steady flight
Far through the welkin's clear profundity,
Or like a cloud of filmy, flaky white,
Borne through the moonlight blue,—one lonely speck of light.
Here, as I sit, strange fantasies and dreams,
With hues as vivid as reality,
Flit by. The infinite blue ocean seems
A thing of life. Shrouded in mystery,
Heave thy long billows onward, sounding sea!
And, in thy voice, full many tales are told
Of griefs that in thy secret caverns be,
Of joys that wither in thy circling fold,
Like flowers that wake to life in winter's chill and cold.
And yet thou art a thing of loveliness,
And forms surpassing fair thy waters hide;
The branching coral blends, in sweet caress,
With intertwining sea-plants-far and wide
Gems sparkle to the swaying of the tide;
Beings, the seaman's dread, thy blue depths throng;
And poets feign, how o'er thy bosom glide
Beautiful sea-nymphs, warbling such sweet song
As wakes the hidden rill, winding its path along.
And fearful thoughts, too, round thee cast their spell;
A voice comes up from thy dark-heaving wave,
Distant and deep, like sound of funeral bell;
A voice which tells, that there have found a grave
Multitudes of earth's children, master, slave,
The grey-haired father, and the blooming boy,
Warriors that wore the laurels of the brave,
And forms of beauty. Ah! could'st thou destroy Her whose fair tresses streamed upon the breath of joy!
Cities have sunk beneath thy victor march,
As when of old, with mutterings deep and low,
Sprung the volcano's mine, and a red arch
Of flame gushed forth, and whelmed beneath its flow
Italia's fairest lands. The keels that plough
Thy breast, masses of strength, oh, what are they,
When thy waves rage, and like the drifting snow,
Throughout the darkened air is flung thy spray,
And thy dark caverns all lie open to the day.
And yet thou art a picture of man's life,—
Of youth, when sparkling hope keeps festival,
And years flow on like sunlit streams,-man's strife
For fame,-of wintry age, when sorrows fall
Like blight in summer on the soul, and all
The founts of joy are choked. As o'er thy face
Blank darkness spreads her melancholy pall,
Thou shadowest forth our end, when life's short race Is run, and man is laid in his long resting-place.
Ar day's soft close, when village sounds have died
By the green hill, and o'er the hamlet-side,
Ofttimes a strain of fairy music steals
On my rapt ear with low and plaintive peals—
Oh! then what spirit haunts the hill, the glade,
And breathes around its mellow serenade ?
Is it the harp's wild burst, the timbrel's swell,
The lyre's rich chime, or breath of wreathed shell?-
Nor harp, nor lyre, nor tones unearthly, fill
Yon ancient wood, that crowns the distant hill;
Some torrent's music, soft, yet wildly clear,
By distance mello wed, breaks upon the ear—
Fancy, wild fancy! haunts the boundless air,
Breathes in each wind, each sound that wanders there;
Her viewless presence, her mysterious wand,
Fill with enchantment air and sea and land!
With solemn tread men pass, where rose of yore
The minstrel's song,-where song may breathe no more,
With awe they linger, where the mystic tune
Hath filled the cloister's cell at night's still noon;
And, as soft light streams through the pictured pane,
Cowled heads seem bending o'er each ruined fane;
As the long grass waves o'er each shattered wall,
The pale, meek nuns, at Fancy's magic call,
Haunt the grey arch, the rudely-sculptured pile,
The broken shrine, and dim sepulchral aisle.
Oft bends the traveller, when the curfew's chime
Tolls from yon spire the silent lapse of time,
Where the green turf upheaves its billowy ridge,
To trace some rampart's sweep, some time-worn bridge,
Or the rude marks which shaft and columns bear,
Grey! with the dust which years have scattered there;
Fancy then paints those scenes, when stormy song
And ringing trumpets roused the mailed throng;
When yon reft stones in ponderous grandeur frowned,
And each dark turret sent defiance round;
When serf and chieftain swept the wintry main
To meet their foe, in war's wild hurricane!
He tracks their course, and hears their clarion's bray
O'er the black waves that thunder round their way,
Hears their loud music o'er the waters wide,
And their free shout float hoarsely o'er the tide ;
Then, too, he marks their red-cross banners wave
O'er Syrian hills,-each hill a pagan's grave-
While loud and far the heavy weapons ring
As each stern chief, and England's fiery king,
Sweep o'er the plain, or fill with glittering mail
The almond woods, in Syria's quiet vale!
All times are thine! When Spring's first music breaks
Through the pale woods, and o'er the tranquil lakes-
When Summer's voice rings gaily o'er the lea,
And dancers throng the merry greenwood-tree-
When Autumn's brow is wreathed with harvest grain,
And Autumn fruits lie mellowing on the plain-
When hoary winter stirs the fallen leaves,
And sighs along the hills like one that grieves,
Then Fancy reigns; when buds first bend the vine,
Or at the year's calm close,-all times are thine!
ANOTHER VISION IN VERSE.*
"T WAS the eve of a balmy summer's day,
The sun was throwing his latest ray,
The swallow was winging his homeward flight,
And the fire-fly trimming his tiny light,
The earth beneath, the heavens above,
Were breathing peace, and joy, and love,
As we sat in the glow of that western sky,
While music's voice was waking nigh.
That western sky, that western sky,
Its splendors still enchant mine eye;
And, oh! that music's melting strain,
It falls upon mine ear again.
*See "The Atlantic Magazine," vol. i. pp. 278-280.
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