CENTRE of light and energy! thy way
Is through the unknown void; thou hast thy throne,
Morning, and evening, and at noon of day,
Far in the blue, untended and alone:
Ere the first-waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light;
Then thou didst send thy glance, which still
Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and bright.
We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give To earth the fire that animates her crust, And wakens all the forms that move and live, From the fine, viewless mould which lurks in dust,
To him who looks to heaven, and on his bust Bears stamp'd the seal of Gon, who gathers there Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust In his own center'd powers, who aims to share In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair.
Thy path is high in heaven; we cannot gaze On the intense of light that girds thy car; There is a crown of glory in thy rays,
Which bears thy pure divinity afar, To mingle with the equal light of star,- For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole
One of the sparks of night that fire the air, And, as around thy centre planets roll, So thou, too, hast thy path around the central soul.
I am no fond idolater to thee,
One of the countless multitude, who burn, As lamps, around the one Eternity,
In whose contending forces systems turn Their circles round that seat of life, the urn Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies:
Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes, Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies.
And thou, too, hast thy world, and unto thee
We are as nothing; thou goest forth alone, And movest through the wide, aerial sea,
Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne From a new victory, where he late had shown Wider his power to nations; so thy light Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had
With each revolving day, or thou, at night, Had lit again thy fires, and thus renew'd thy might. Age o'er thee has no power: thou bring'st the same Light to renew the morning, as when first, If not eternal, thou, with front of flame,
On the dark face of earth in glory burst, And warm'd the seas, and in their bosom nursed The earliest things of life, the worm and shell; Till, through the sinking ocean, mountains pierced,
And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, Rear'd, like a magic fane, above the watery swell.
And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends An energy to nature; all that feeds
On the rich mould, and then, in bearing, bends Its fruits again to earth, wherein it blends The last and first of life; of all who bear
Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends, Instinctive, in their common good to share, Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living there.
They live in thee: without thee, all were dead And dark; no beam had lighted on the waste, But one eternal night around had spread
Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced This Eden, which thy fairy hand hath graced With such uncounted beauty; all that blows
In the fresh air of spring, and, growing, braced Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows In the full-temper'd beam, that gladdens as it goes. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles;
Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn; Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne ;
Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn
Of all their waving locks, and storms awake; All, that was once so beautiful, is torn By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake, And, in their maddening rush, the crested moun- tains shake.
The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow;
Life lingers, and would die, but thy return Gives to their gladden'd hearts an overflow Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly
All bands that would confine, and give to air
Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair.
The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave that crinkles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore,-
The vales are thine; and when they wake from
The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er Their soft and oozy beds, look upward, and adore.
The hills are thine: they catch thy newest beam,
And gladden in thy parting, where the wood Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream, That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food Of nations in its waters: so thy rays
Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays.
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,
For ages, I watch'd alone,
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.
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,
For ages, I watch'd alone,
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."
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