Like a glow-worm golden Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy. winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. C What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy keen clear joyance, Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground' Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness The world should listen then, as I am listening now. TO VENUS. BY ALBERT PIKE. O, THOU, most lovely and most beautiful! With dim eyes at the moon-(ah! so dost thou Full oft quench brightness!)-VENUS, whether now Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing Of thy fair doves is wet, while sea-maids bring Sweet odours for thee-(ah! how foolish they! They have not felt thy smart!) They know not, while in ocean-caves they play, How strong thou art. Where'er thou art, O VENUS! hear our song- bird, With notes that never but by thee are heard- And, with half-open eye, Drinkest in beauty-O, most fair, that thou O, thou, through whom all things upon the earth Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing mirth Lengthens his note; thou whom the joyous bird More merrily within the brimming vase, To meet thy lip: thou, at whose quiet pace Yea, unto thee his wither'd hand doth hold, Fill'd with that heart-blood: thou, to whose high might All things are made to bow, Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light O, hear, great goddess! thou whom all obey; |