TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?
When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws.
And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High
Have told, why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God,
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town!
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.
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As the rose of the valley, when dripping with dew,
Is the sweetest in odour and brightest in hue;
So the glance of dear woman most lovely appears,
When it beams from her eloquent eye through her tears!
Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung
With myrtle and with laurel; on whose head
Genius had shed his starry glories,-transcripts
Of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment.
SHE leant upon her harp, and thousands looked
On her in love and wonder ;-thousands knelt
And worshipped in her presence ;-burning tears,
And words that died in utterance, and a pause
Of breathless agitated eagerness,
First gave the full heart's homage; then came forth
A shout that rose to heaven, and the hills,
The distant valleys, all rang with the name
Of the Æolian Sappho!-Every heart
Found in itself some echo to her song.
Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh,-
And some gone by for ever-glorious dreams,
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts
That dwell upon the absent and the dead,
Were breathing in her music-and these are
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed,
Her colour's varying with deep emotion-
There is a softer blush than conscious pride
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile
Is all a woman's timid tenderness.
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days
And feelings warm have rushed on her soul
With all their former influence;-thoughts that slept
Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life ;-
Whole years' existence have passed in that glance.—
She had once loved in very early days;
That was a thing gone by. One had called forth
The music of her soul.-He loved her too,
But not as she did :-she was unto him
As a young bird, whose early flight he trained, Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught
Those songs;-but she looked up to him with all
Youth's deep and passionate idolatry ;—
Love was her heart's sole universe-he was
To her, Hope, Genius, Energy, the God
Her inmost spirit worshipped, in whose smile
Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious; praise
Was prized but as the echo of his own.
But other times and other feelings came :-
Hope is love's element, and love with her
Sickened of its own vanity.-She lived
Mid bright realities and brighter dreams,
Those strange but exquisite imaginings
That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts;
And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path;
And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never
Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her.
Her first love never wholly lost its power,
But, like rich incense shed, although no trace
Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness
Mingled with every feeling, and it gave
That soft and melancholy tenderness,
Which was the magic of her song.-That Youth
Who knelt before her was so like the shape
That haunted her spring dreams-the same dark eyes,
Whose light had once been as the light of heaven!-
Others breathed winning flatteries, she turned
A careless hearing;-but when Phaon spoke,
Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light
Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer.-
She loved with all the ardour of a heart
Which lives but in itself; her life had passed
Amid the grand creations of the thought.
Love was to her a vision ;-it was now
Heightened into devotion.-But a soul
So gifted and so passionate as her's
Will seek companionship in vain, and find
Its feelings solitary.-Phaon soon
Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid ;
And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame,
May not soothe slighted love.
There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea;
"Twas there love's last song echoed :—there She sleeps, Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name Will be remembered long as Love or Song
Are sacred-the devoted Sappho!
FAREWELL, my Lute!—and would that I
Had never waked thy burning chords!
Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame
Thy power, thy spell, my gentle lute?
I should have been the wretch I am,
Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;
It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!
But, no! I will not name thy name!
Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vowed to thee!
Long be their light upon my grave-
My glorious grave!-Yon deep blue sea!
I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!
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