Soaring on thy vane-like wings
Rise o'er earth and clod-like things.
Smite the rolling clouds that bar
Thy progress to those realms afar;
Career it with the Sisters seven,
Pace it through the star-paved heaven;
Snatch Orion's baldrick,—then,
Astride upon the Dragon, dare
To hunt the lazy-footed Bear
Around the pole and back again;
Scourge him tightly, scourge him faster,
Let the savage know his master!
And, to close the mighty feat,
Light thy lamp of brave conceit
With some grim, red-bearded star,
(Sign of Famine, Fire, and War,)
And hang it on the young moon's horn
To show how poet thought is born.
IF men were fashioned of the stone,
Then might they never yield to love-
But fashioned as they are, they owne
(On earth, as in the realme above,)
That Beauty, in perfection stil
Controls the thoughts, impels the wil.
And sure 'twere vaine to stemme the tide Of passion surging in the breast— Since fierce ambition, stubborn pryde
Have each the sovereigne power confest ;
Which rolleth on, despite al staie,
Sweeping ilk prudent shifte awaye.
What though the mayden that we love
May fail to meet the troth we bear-
Nor once its generous warmth approve,
Nor bate one jot of our despaire-
Doth not the blind dictator say-
"Thou foolish wichte pyne on alwaie !"
We cannot read the wondrous lawes
That knit the soul to lovelinesse ;
We feel their influence, but their cause
Remains a theme of mysticknesse—
We only know Love may not be
O'ermastered by Wil's energie.
Nor would I wish to break the dream
Of troubled joy; that still is mine-
Albeit that the cheering gleam
Of hope hath almost ceased to shine-
So long as Beauty light doth give,
My heart must feel, its love must live!
O LIFE! what is thy quest ?—What owns this world
Of stalking shadows, fleeting phantasies,
Enjoyments substanceless-to wed the mind
To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate-
Or crib the pinion of the aspiring soul
(Upborne ever by the mystical)
To a poor nook of this sin-stricken earth,
Or sterile point of time ?—The Universe,
My spirit, is thy birth-right-and thy term
Of occupance, thou river, limitless-
Eternity!
DIM power! by very indistinctness made
More potent, as the twilight's shade
Gives magnitude to objects mean;
Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen,
That with thy mystic, undefined,
And boundless presence, fills my mind
With unimaginable fears, and chills
My aching heart, and all its pulses stills
Into a silence deeper than the grave,
That erst throbbed quick and brave!
Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream,
Dost thou, embodying its very sound
In thy own substance, seem
To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found
Her bridal pillow deftly spread
Upon the tall reeds' rustling head,
And the long green sedges graceful sweep,
Where the otter and the wild drake sleep?
And wherefore, in the moonshine clear,
Doth her wan form appear
For ever gliding on the water's breast
As shadowy mist that hath no rest,
But wanders idly to and fro
Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow?
Thou mystic spirit tell,
Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell
Which load the passing wind,
Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind
The footfall of the dead
The almost voiceless, nameless tread,
And restless stirring to and fro of those
To whom the grave itself can never yield repose,
But whose dark, guilty sprites
Wander and wail with glowworm lights
Within the circle of the yew tree's shade,
Until the gray cock flaps his wings,
And the dubious light of morn upsprings
O'er yonder hoar hills' dewy head?
And say, while seated under this grey arch
Where old Time oft in sooth
Hath whet his pitiless tooth,
And gnawed clean through
Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue,
I watch the moon's swift march
Through paths of heavenly blue :
Methinks that there are eyes which gaze on me, And jealous spirits breathing near, who be Floating around me, or in pensive mood
Throned on some shatter'd column's ivied head, Hymning a warning lay in solitude,
Making the silent loneness of the place
More chilly, deep, and dead,
And more befitting haunt for their aerial race?
Terribly lovely power! I ask of thee,
Wherefore so lord it o'er my phantasye,
That in the forests moaning sound,
And in the cascade's far-off muttered noise,
And in the breeze of midnight, and the bound
And leap of ocean billows heard afar,
I still do deem these are
The whispering melodies of things that be
Immortal, viewless, formless-not of earth,
But heaven descended, and thus softly
At midnight mingling their wild mirth :
Or, when pale Dian loves to shroud
Her fair and glittering form, beneath the veil
Of watery mist or dusky fire-edged cloud,
And giant shadows sail
With stately march athwart the heaven's calm face;
Say then, why unto me is given
A clearer vision, so that I do see
Between the limits of the earth and heaven
A bright and marvellous race—
A goodly shining company—
Flaunting in garments of unsullied snow,
That ever and anon do come and go
From star to hill top, or green hollow glen,
And so back again?
Those visions strange, and portents dark and wild,
That in fond childhood had a painful pleasure,
Have not, by reason's voice, been quite exiled,
But still possess their relish in full measure ;
And by a secret and consummate art
At certain times benumb my awe-struck heart-
Making it quail, but not with dastard fear,
But strange presentiment and awe severe,
With curious impertinence to pry
Behind the veil of dim futurity,
And that undying hope that we may still
Grasp at the purpose of the Eternal Will.
YE vernal hours, glad days that once have been !
When life was young, and hopes were budding seen!
When hearts were blythe, and eyes were glistening bright,
And each new morn awoke to new delight;
Ye happy days that softly passed away
In boyish frolic and fantastic play!
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