Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift
Snows that have never wasted, in a sky
Which hath no stain; below, the storm may drift
Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by;
Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie,
Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there;
And when below thy hues of beauty die,
Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear,
Into the high, dark vault, a brow that still is fair.
The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues
Are pencill'd by thee; when thou bendest low,
Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues
Their waving fold with such a perfect glow
Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw
Shame on the proudest art; the tender stain
Hung round the verge of heaven, that as a bow
Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain
All tints to the deep gold that flashes in thy train:
These are thy trophies, and thou bend'st thy arch,
The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine,
Where the spent storm is hasting on its march,
And there the glories of thy light combine,
And form with perfect curve a lifted line,
Striding the earth and air; man looks, and tells
How peace and mercy in its beauty shine,
And how the heavenly messenger impels
Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether
swells.
The ocean is thy vassal; thou dost sway
His waves to thy dominion, and they go Where thou, in heaven, dost guide them on their
Rising and falling in eternal flow;
Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow; They take them wings, and spring aloft in air, And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw
Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear.
I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast,
Widest of waters; I have seen thee lie Calm, as an infant pillow'd in its rest
On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky, Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye, Till a new heaven was arch'd and glass'd below; And then the clouds, that, gay in sunset, fly, Cast on it such a stain, it kindled so, As in the cheek of youth the living roses grow. I, too, have seen thee on thy surging path, When the night-tempest met thee: thou didst dash
Thy white arms high in heaven, as if in wrath,
Threatening the angry sky; thy waves did lash
The labouring vessel, and with deadening crash
Rush madly forth to scourge its groaning sides;
Onward thy billows came, to meet and clash
In a wild warfare, till the lifted tides
Mingled their yesty tops, where the dark storm-
cloud rides.
In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles,
When the quick winds uprear it in a swell,
That rolls, in glittering green, around the isles, Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell; O! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell,
I hurry o'er the waters, when the sail
Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well Over the curling billow, and the gale Comes off the spicy groves to tell its winning tale. The soul is thine: of old thou wert the power Who gave the poet life; and I in thee Feel my heart gladden at the holy hour
When thou art sinking in the silent sea; Or when I climb the height, and wander free In thy meridian glory, for the air
Sparkles and burns in thy intensity,
I feel thy light within me, and I share
In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there.
THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,
Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallow'd rays;
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.
In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments that pleasure hath
Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound;
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
* Biferique rosaria Pæsti.-Virg.
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose:
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow:
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,—
But the hectic spot that flushes there
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling.
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory, met
To honour the sun at his golden set;
O! then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long-imprinted kiss;
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes;
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to.its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires,
With a woman's love, and a saint's desires,
And her last, fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world, and a brighter day.
BIRD of the broad and sweeping wing,
Thy home is high in heaven,
Where wide the storms their banners fling,
And the tempest clouds are driven.
Thy throne is on the mountain top;
Thy fields, the boundless air;
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop
The skies, thy dwellings are.
Thou sittest like a thing of light,
Amid the noontide blaze:
The midway sun is clear and bright;
It cannot dim thy gaze.
Thy pinions, to the rushing blast,
O'er the bursting billow, spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past,
Like an angel of the dead.
Thou art perch'd aloft on the beetling crag,
And the waves are white below,
And on, with a haste that cannot lag,
They rush in an endless flow.
Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight To lands beyond the sea,
And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest, wild and free.
Thou hurriest over the myriad waves,
And thou leavest them all behind;
Thou sweepest that place of unknown graves,
Fleet as the tempest wind.
When the night-storm gathers dim and dark
With a shrill and boding scream,
Thou rushest by the foundering bark,
Quick as a passing dream.
Lord of the boundless realm of air,
In thy imperial name,
The hearts of the bold and ardent dare
The dangerous path of fame.
Beneath the shade of thy golden wings,
The Roman legions bore,
From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs,
Their pride, to the polar shore.
For thee they fought, for thee they fell,
And their oath was on thee laid;
To thee the clarions raised their swell,
And the dying warrior pray'd.
Thou wert, through an age of death and fears,
The image of pride and power,
Till the gather'd rage of a thousand years
Burst forth in one awful hour.
And then a deluge of wrath it came,
And the nations shook with dread; And it swept the earth till its fields were flame, And piled with the mingled dead. Kings were roll'd in the wasteful flood,
With the low and crouching slave; And together lay, in a shroud of blood, The coward and the brave.
And where was then thy fearless flight?
"O'er the dark, mysterious sea,
To the lands that caught the setting light,
The cradle of Liberty.
There, on the silent and lonely shore,
I watch'd alone,
For ages,
And the world, in its darkness, ask'd no more
Where the glorious bird had flown.
"But then came a bold and hardy few,
And they breasted the unknown wave;
I caught afar the wandering crew;
And I knew they were high and brave.
I wheel'd around the welcome bark,
As it sought the desolate shore,
And up to heaven, like a joyous lark,
My quivering pinions bore.
"And now that bold and hardy few
Are a nation wide and strong;
And danger and doubt I have led them through,
And they worship me in song;
And over their bright and glancing arms,
On field, and lake, and sea,
With an eye that fires, and a spell that charms,
I guide them to victory."
THE world is full of poetry-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veil'd,
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls,
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high,
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn,
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
The year leads round the seasons, in a choir
Forever charming, and forever new,
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain,
Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean, resting after storms;
Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand,
Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls,
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to heaven.
"Tis not the chime and flow of words, that move In measured file, and metrical array; "Tis not the union of returning sounds, Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, And quantity, and accent, that can give This all-pervading spirit to the ear, Or blend it with the movings of the soul. "Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines Man with the world around him, in a chain Woven of flowers, and dipp'd in sweetness, till He taste the high communion of his thoughts, With all existence, in earth and heaven, That meet him in the charm of grace and power. "Tis not the noisy babbler, who displays, In studied phrase, and ornate epithet, And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments That overload their littleness. Its words Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, His language wing'd with terror, as when bolts Leap from the brooding tempest, arm'd with wrath, Commission'd to affright us, and destroy.
Passion, when deep, is still: the glaring eye That reads its enemy with glance of fire, The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness, The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide The keen, fix'd orbs, that burn and flash below, The hand firm clench'd and quivering, and the foot
Planted in attitude to spring, and dart
Its vengeance, are the language it employs.
So the poetic feeling needs no words
To give it utterance; but it swells, and glows,
And revels in the ecstasies of soul,
And sits at banquet with celestial forms,
The beings of its own creation, fair
And lovely, as e'er haunted wood and wave,
When earth was peopled, in its solitudes,
With nymph and naiad-mighty, as the gods,
Whose palace was Olympus, and the clouds,
That hung, in gold and flame, around its brow;
Who bore, upon their features, all that grand
And awful dignity of front, which bows
The eye that gazes on the marble Jove,
Who hurls, in wrath, his thunder, and the god,
The image of a beauty, so divine,
So masculine, so artless, that we seem
To share in his intensity of joy,
When, sure as fate, the bounding arrow sped,
And darted to the scaly monster's heart.
This spirit is the breath of Nature, blown
Over the sleeping forms of clay, who else
Doze on through life in blank stupidity,
Till by its blast, as by a touch of fire,
They rouse to lofty purpose, and send out,
In deeds of energy, the rage within.
Its seat is deeper in the savage breast,
Than in the man of cities; in the child,
Than in the maturer bosoms. Art may prune
Its rank and wild luxuriance, and may train
Its strong out-breakings, and its vehement gusts
To soft refinement, and amenity;
But all its energy has vanish'd, all
Its maddening, and commanding spirit gone,
And all its tender touches, and its tones
Of soul-dissolving pathos, lost and hid
Among the measured notes, that move as dead
And heartless, as the puppets in a show.
Well I remember, in my boyish days,
How deep the feeling, when my eye look'd forth
On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms;
How my heart gladden'd, as the light of spring
Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with
showers,
Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods
To music, and the atmosphere to blow,
Sweetly and calmly, with its breath of balm.
O! how I gazed upon the dazzling blue
Of summer's heaven of glory, and the waves,
That roll'd, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain;
And on the tempest, when it issued forth,
In folds of blackness, from the northern sky,
And stood above the mountains, silent, dark,
Frowning, and terrible; then sent abroad
The lightning, as its herald, and the peal,
That roll'd in deep, deep volleys, round the hills,
The warning of its coming, and the sound,
That usher'd in its elemental war.
And, O! I stood, in breathless longing fix'd,
Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds
Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds,
That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood,
A long, hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves,
That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore.
Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high
Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure
As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang
Fresh from the hand that wrought her; where the eye
Caught not a speck upon the soft serene,
To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud,
That floated, like a lonely spirit, there,
White as the snow of Zemla, or the foam
That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round,
In easy undulations, with a belt
Woven of bright APOLLO's golden hair.
Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night,
Mantled in ebon darkness, strew'd with stars
Its canopy, that seem'd to swell, and swell
The higher, as I gazed upon it, till,
Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height
Of heaven, the everlasting throne shone through,
In glory's effulgence, and a wave,
Intensely bright, roll'd, like a fountain, forth
Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and stream'd
Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow,
Bathing the heavens in light, the spring, that gush'd,
In overflowing richness, from the breast
Of all-maternal nature. These I saw,
And felt to madness; but my full heart gave
No utterance to the ineffable within.
Words were too weak; they were unknown; but still
The feeling was most poignant: it has gone;
And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er
Pour'd, in a torrent fulness, from the tongue
Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored
With all the patriarchs of British song
Hallow'd and render'd glorious, cannot tell
Those feelings, which have died, to live no more.
YE Clouds, who are the ornament of heaven; Who give to it its gayest shadowings, And its most awful glories; ye who roll In the dark tempest, or at dewy evening Hang low in tenderest beauty; ye who, ever Changing your Protean aspects, now are gather'd, Like fleecy piles, when the mid-sun is brightest, Even in the height of heaven, and there repose, Solemnly calm, without a visible motion, Hour after hour, looking upon the earth With a serenest smile :-or ye who rather Heap'd in those sulphury masses, heavily Jutting above their bases, like the smoke Pour'd from a furnace or a roused volcano, Stand on the dun horizon, threatening Lightning and storm-who, lifted from the hills, March onward to the zenith, ever darkening, And heaving into more gigantic towers And mountainous piles of blackness—who then roar With the collected winds within your womb, Or the far utter'd thunders-who ascend Swifter and swifter, till wide overhead Your vanguards curl and toss upon the tempest Like the stirr'd ocean on a reef of rocks Just topping o'er its waves, while deep below The pregnant mass of vapour and of flame
Rolls with an awful pomp, and grimly lowers,
Seeming to the struck eye of fear the car
Of an offended spirit, whose swart features
Glare through the sooty darkness-fired with ven-
geance,
And ready with uplifted hand to smite
And scourge a guilty nation; ye who lie,
After the storm is over, far away,
Crowning the dripping forests with the arch
Of beauty, such as lives alone in heaven,
Bright daughter of the sun, bending around
From mountain unto mountain, like the wreath
Of victory, or like a banner telling
Of joy and gladness; ye who round the moon
Assemble when she sits in the mid-sky
In perfect brightness, and encircle her
With a fair wreath of all aerial dyes:
Ye who, thus hovering round her, shine like moun
Whose tops are never darken'd, but remain,
Centuries and countless ages, rear'd for temples
Of purity and light; or ye who crowd
To hail the new-born day, and hang for him,
Above his ocean-couch, a canopy
Of all inimitable hues and colours,
Such as are only pencil'd by the hands
Of the unseen ministers of earth and air,
Seen only in the tinting of the clouds,
And the soft shadowing of plumes and flowers;
Or ye who, following in his funeral train,
Light up your torches at his sepulchre,
And open on us through the clefted hills
Far glances into glittering worlds beyond
The twilight of the grave, where all is light,
Golden and glorious light, too full and high
For mortal eye to gaze on, stretching out
Brighter and ever brighter, till it spread,
Like one wide, radiant ocean, without bounds,
One infinite sea of glory:-Thus, ye clouds,
And in innumerable other shapes
Of greatness or of beauty, ye attend us,
To give to the wide arch above us, life
And all its changes. Thus it is to us
A volume full of wisdom, but without ye
One awful uniformity had ever
With too severe a majesty oppress'd us.
A NIGHT had pass'd away among the hills, And now the first faint tokens of the dawn Show'd in the east. The bright and dewy star, Whose mission is to usher in the morn, Look'd through the cool air, like a blessed thing In a far purer world. Below there lay, Wrapp'd round a woody mountain tranquilly, A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light, That now came up from out the unseen depth Of the full fount of day, and they were laced With colours ever brightening. I had waked From a long sleep of many changing dreams, And now in the fresh forest air I stood Nerved to another day of wandering.
Seen in a vision by the holy man
Before me rose a pinnacle of rock,
Lifted above the wood that hemm'd it in,
And now already glowing. There the beams
Came from the far horizon, and they wrapp'd it
In light and glory. Round its vapoury cone
A crown of far-diverging rays shot out,
And gave to it the semblance of an altar
Lit for the worship of the undying flame,
That center'd in the circle of the sun,
Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves,
Anon would stand in solitary pomp
Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them
With splendour as a garment. Thitherward
I bent my eager steps; and through the grove,
Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung
With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems,
Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues
Shed from the starry fringes of its veil
On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown
In infinite reflections, on I went,
Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging,
I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited
Silent the full appearing of the sun.
Below there lay a far-extended sea, Rolling in feathery waves. And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks, And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops, Till, like an ocean waking into storm, It heaved and welter'd. Gloriously the light Crested its billows, and those craggy islands Shone on it like to palaces of spar Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead, Thy sky, without a vapour or a stain, Intensely blue, even deepen'd into purple, When nearer the horizon it received
A tincture from the mist that there dissolved Into the viewless air,-the sky bent round, The awful dome of a most mighty temple, Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less Than infinite worship. There I stood in silenceI had no words to tell the mingled thoughts Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me, Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, So bright, so glorious! Such a majesty In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints In yonder waste of waves,-so like the ocean With its unnumber'd islands there encircled By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle, Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds To bathe in purest sunbeams, seem'd an ospray Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines, Their tops half-mantled in a snowy veil, A frigate with full canvass, bearing on To conquest and to glory. But even these Had round them something of the lofty air In which they moved; not like to things of earth, But heighten'd, and made glorious, as became Such pomp and splendour.
Who can tell the brightness, That every moment caught a newer glow, That circle, with its centre like the heart Of elemental fire, and spreading out In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky And on the ophaline waves, crown'd with a rainbow Bright as the arch that bent above the throne
In Patmos! who can tell how it ascended,
And flow'd more widely o'er that lifted ocean,
Till instantly the unobstructed sun
Roll'd up his sphere of fire, floating away-
Away in a pure ether, far from earth,
And all its clouds,-and pouring forth unbounded
His arrowy brightness! From that burning centre
At once there ran along the level line
Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold-
Liquid and flowing gold, that seem'd to tremble
Even with a furnace heat, on to the point
Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour
Parted away, and melting into air,
Rose round me, and I stood involved in light,
As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapp'd me
In its innocuous blaze. Away it roll'd,
Wave after wave. They climb'd the highest rocks,
Pour'd over them in surges, and then rush'd
Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent
Dash'd instant to the plain. It seem'd a moment,
And they were gone, as if the touch of fire
At once dissolved them. Then I found myself
Midway in air; ridge after ridge below,
Descended with their opulence of woods
Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake
Flash'd in the sun, and from it wound a line,
Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge
Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks
Was round me-but below how beautiful,
How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves
And ripening harvests; while the sky of June-
The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air,
That makes it then a luxury to live,
Only to breathe it, and the busy echo
Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks,
Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart,
That where I stood seem'd heaven.
HE comes not-I have watched the moon go down,
But yet he comes not.-Once it was not so. He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, The while he holds his riot in that town. Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep; And he will wake my infant from its sleep, To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. O! how I love a mother's watch to keep, Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep. I had a husband once, who loved me-now He ever wears a frown upon his brow, And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip; But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours, When I could hang forever on his eye, And time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. I loved him then-he loved me too.-My heart Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile; The memory of our loves will ne'er depart; And though he often sting me with a dart,
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