Imágenes de páginas

How my heart beats in coupling those two words !)
Save only thee and me. I paused I looked
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted !)

The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more : the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All - all expired save thee save less than thou :
Save only the divine light in thine eyes —
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them they were the world to me.
I saw but them

saw only them for hours
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres !
How dark a woe! yet how sublime a hope !
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition ! yet how deep-
How fathomless a capacity for love !

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud ;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide way. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go — they never yet have gone.

Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me — they lead me through the years —
They are my ministers yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),


in Heaven the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still

two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

And are


OT long ago, the writer of these lines,

In the mad pride of intellectuality, [that ever

Maintained “the power of words denied A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words — two foreign soft dissyllables Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit “ dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”.

Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,”)
Could hope to utter. And I ! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write — I cannot speak or think
Alas, I cannot feel; for 't is not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid unpurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates - thee only.


[ocr errors]


The leaves they were crisped and sere

The leaves they were withering and sere — It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir – It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

Of cypress, I roamed with my soul

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. These were days when


heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll

As the lavas that restlessly roll — Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

In the ultimate climes of the pole That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere

Our memories were treacherous and sere For we knew not the month was October,

And we marked not the night of the year

(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber –

(Though once we had journeyed down here) Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent

And star-dials pointed to morn

As the star-dials hinted of morn At the end of our path a liquescent

And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent

Arose with a duplicate horn Astarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said “She is warmer than Dian :

She rolls through an ether of sighs –

She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion

To point us the path to the skies –

To the Lethean peace of the skies Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes – Come up through the lair of the Lion,

With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said — “Sadly this star I mistrust

Her pallor I strangely mistrust:Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly! - let us fly! — for we must."

« AnteriorContinuar »