FROM Hyperion's purple wain,
Pendent o'er the western main,
Twinkling through the twilight shade,
Arrowy lines of splendor play'd;
Silence, on her pinion clos'd,
Deaf to sorrow's wail, repos'd,
Save, that where fresher buds betray
The silver streamlet's sinewy way;
A Naïad, all to song unknown,
With moist heel slipp'd from stone to stone,
And stole adown the haunted dale,
To chide the tardy nightingale ;
When, his beechen bow'r beneath,
Hung with many a field-flow'r wreath,
Pensive Painting, first, essay'd
The semblance of a fav'rite maid:
Fancy!-whom he oft had seen,
Nymph-like, tripping o'er the green,
Richly dight in varied hues,
(By her side the tendant Muse,)
What time, with heav'n's own dyes imprest,
The glitt'ring rainbow zon'd her breast.
Artless, first, the sketch began ;
Rude the pencil's early plan;
'Till from the waving wood behind,
Whose foliage shook without a wind,
Proud to fan his genuine flame,
The pitying Pow'rs of Painting came.
First, in decent garb array'd,
Succinct with pearly clasp her stole,
Slow advanc'd a meek-ey'd maid,
And curb'd the workings of his soul;
With easy grace her state she mov'd;
Each fault her patient touch improv'd;
The long, luxuriant line
She gave with chaster charm to flow;
And, from her blue cloud's ruby-tinctur'd glow, Pleas'd Beauty, stooping, smil'd upon Design.
Next appear'd a twin-like pair ;
One, flush'd with bloom, divinely fair ;
Dusky one, of negro-race,
Yet amiable either face;
Quick they thrid the checquer'd maze,
Borrowing still, and lending aid,
While the mellowing tint betrays
The sweet diversity of Light and Shade.
But who is she,* exactly drest,
With classic care, in Attic vest?
Her slender leg with buskin bound:
And now, still changing as she turns,
Bright on her starry front the turban burns;
Anon, with Roman casque, or Indian plumage crown'd;
Behind her follow, Science, daring youth!
And taleful Mem'ry, and Historic Truth.
But oh! how rich the bosom-shrine,
Op'ning to thy pure possession,
Thou! whose eyes so softly shine,
How they languish !-fond Expression!
On the finish'd piece they pour
Saintly-fading gleams of glory;
O'er each scene, and o'er each story,
Breathing an irradiate show'r:
Whether, (fair Colouring ardent by thy side,)
On opal tow'r thou fling'st thy moonlight-beam;
Or tinge the murd'rer's poignard, slaughter-dy'd, And shed strange horrors on the sanguine stream; Or, inly bleeding, while he bends to trace
The sacred scroll of long-remember'd woe ; Thy spell anneals the tears, that, ling'ring flow, Down the pale ruins of the lover's face!
LONELY, by the moon's faint lustre
Trembling o'er the twilight scene,
Beauteous Mary, roam'd, sad-musing,
Wildly pale, with pensive mien !
As the dear ideas, crowding
On her anguish'd thought, succeed,
Silent falls the tender tribute,
Deep the wounded feelings bleed.
"Where, oh! where, reclines my soldier?
On what pillow rests thy head?
Might this poor distracted bosom,
Hold thee living, love, or dead!
Might I to thy fond tale listen,
Might I thy soft accents hear,
Smooth thy brow of every furrow,
Drop in every wound a tear!
When returning from the battle,
Might my fondness chear thy sight,
Each exploit, each deed recounting,
Thankful, through the livelong night.
Or, at azure-dawn departing,
When shrill trumpets rend the air,
Might I fire thy breast with valour,
Might I breathe one fervent pray'r!
Here, alas! retired I linger,
Dream thy fancy'd danger's o'er ;
View that face, in charming vision,
I, perchance, shall view no more.
Often too, sad, saddest omen!
Mid the slaughter'd heaps I rove,
With hurried hand, each corse unveiling,
Terror leading anxious love!
Pow'r of pity, whose broad target
Throws the rapid sword aside,
Catch, oh! catch each fatal bullet,
Be his champion, be his guide!
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