Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;
He from above descending, stooped to touch
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks:
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Appennines,
And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;
And wove his garland of the lightning's wing,
In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,
Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,
Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;
Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung
His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.
Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,
His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce
As equals deemed. All passions of all men,
The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;
All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;
All creeds, all seasons, time, eternity;
All that was hated, and all that was dear;
All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man,
He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves;
Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.
With terror now he froze the cowering blood,
And now dissolved the heart in tenderness;
Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself;
But back into his soul retired, alone,
Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously
On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.
So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late
To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought.
As some fierce comet of tremendous size,
To which the stars did reverence as it passed,
So he, through learning and through fancy, took
His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top
Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn,
As if he from the earth had laboured up;
But, as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,
He looked, which down from higher regions came,
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.
Of a deserted banquet-room :-
To see the spider's web outvie
The torn and faded tapestry ;--
To shudder at the cold damp air,
Then think how once were blooming there
The incense-vase with odour flowing,
The silver lamp its softness throwing
O'er cheeks as beautiful and bright
As roses bathed in summer light;-
How through the portals sweeping came
Proud cavalier and high-born dame,
With gems like stars 'mid raven curls,
And snow-white plumes and wreathed pearls ;-
Gold cups, whose lighted flames made dim
The sparkling stones around the brim ;-
Soft voices answering to the lute,
The swelling harp, the sigh-waked flute ;—
The glancing lightness of the dance ;—
Then, starting sudden from thy trance,
Gaze round the lonely place and see
Its silence and obscurity:
Then commune with thine heart and say,
These are the foot-prints of decay,-
And I, even thus, shall pass away.
FALL, fall, ye mighty temples to the ground!
Not in your sculptured rise
Is the real exercise
Of human nature's brightest power found.
'Tis in the lofty hope, the daily toil,
"Tis in the gifted line,
In each far thought divine,
That brings down heaven to light our common soil.
"Tis in the great, the lovely, and the true,
'Tis in the generous thought
Of all that man has wrought,
Of all that yet remains for man to do.
Он, misery! to see the tomb
Close over all our world of bloom;
To look our last in the dear eyes
Which made our light of Paradise ;
To know that silent is the tone
Whose tenderness was all our own!
To kiss the cheek which once had burned
At the least glance, and find it turned
To marble; and then think of all,
Of hope, that memory can recall.
Yes, misery! but even here
There is a somewhat left to cheer,
A gentle treasuring of sweet things,
Remembrance gathers from the past:
The pride of faithfulness, which clings
To love kept sacred to the last.
And even if another's love
Has traced the heart to us above
The treasures of the east, yet still
There is a solace for the ill.
Those who have known love's utmost spell
Can feel for those who love as well;
Can half forget their own distress,
To share the loved one's happiness.
But, oh, to know our heart has been,
Like the toy of an Indian queen,
Torn, trampled, without thought or care,
Where is despair like this despair!
The day hath passed in praise and prayer,
Now evening comes more still and fair;
The holy heavens are free from gloom,
The earth is green, and gay with bloom;
The blackbird's whistled note is high,
Ringing in woodland melody;
And though the cushat 'mid the grove
Be 'plaining, still his plaint is love.
How calm, how still this hallowed eve!
Methinks the heart might cease to grieve
While gazing on that arch so blue,
With mercy mirrored in its hue,
And think how short a time may bring
Repose from earthly suffering;
Or lend a wing to mount above
The spheres in which the planets move.
The vesper star begins to beam,
But scarce its image strikes the stream,
For summer's faintness o'er it creeps,
And every bolder sparkle keeps
Entangled 'mid the misty light
Which fills the azure vault of night;
While earth and sky appear imbued
With the deep soul of solitude.
If we could feel as men should feel
When heaven and earth their sweets reveal,
Our selfish sorrows all would cease
On such a solemn eve of peace;
And nature's stillness would compose
Our souls, and dissipate our woes;
And from our spirits softly call
Pure hopes and thoughts devotional.
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