Thus, gathering lustre in its race,
And shining through unbounded space,
From earth to heaven his genius soared,
Time and eternity explored,
And hailed, where'er its footsteps trod,
In Nature's temple, Nature's GOD;
Or pierced the human breast to scan
The hidden majesty of man;
Man's hidden weakness too descried,
His glory, grandeur, meanness, pride;
Pursued along their erring course
The streams of passion to their source;
Or in the mind's creation sought
New stars of fancy, worlds of thought!
Yet still through all his strains would flow
A tone of uncomplaining woe,
Kind as the tear in pity's eye,
Soft as the slumbering infant's sigh,
So sweetly, exquisitely wild,
It spake the Muse of Sorrow's child.
O Pillow! then, when light withdrew,
To thee the fond enthusiast flew;
On thee, in pensive mood reclined,
He poured his contemplative mind,
Till o'er his eyes, with mild control,
Sleep like a soft enchantment stole,
Charmed into life his airy schemes,
And realized his waking dreams.
Soon from those waking dreams he woke, The fairy spell of fancy broke:
In vain he breathed a soul of fire
Through every chord that strung his lyre.
No friendly echo cheered his tongue,
Amidst the wilderness he sung;
Louder and bolder bards were crowned,
Whose dissonance his music drowned:
The public ear, the public voice,
Despised his song, denied his choice,
Denied a name, -a life in death,
Denied a bubble and a breath.
Stript of his fondest, dearest claim,
And disinherited of fame,
To thee, O Pillow! thee alone,
He made his silent anguish known;
His haughty spirit scorned the blow
That laid his high ambition low;
Welcome, in the eastern cloud,
Messenger of mercy still!
Now, ye winds! proclaim aloud,
Peace on Earth, to Man goodwill!"
Nature! GOD's repenting child,
See thy Parent reconciled!
Hark! the nightingale, afar,
Sweetly sings the sun to rest,
And awakes the evening star
In the rosy-tinted west;
While the moon's enchanting eye
Opens Paradise on high!
Cool and tranquil is the night,
Nature's sore afflictions cease,
For the storm, that spent its might,
Was a covenant of peace :
Vengeance drops her harmless rod!
Mercy is the Power of GOD!
TO THE MEMORY OF "A FEMALE WHOM SICKNESS HAD RECONCILED TO THE 'NOTES OF SORROW,'
Who corresponded with the Author under this signature on the first publication of his poems in 1806, but died soon after; when her real name and merits were disclosed to him by one of her surviving friends.
My song of Sorrow reached her ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of death,
Consoled me with her latest breath.
What is the poet's highest aim,
His richest heritage of fame?
To track the warrior's fiery road,
With havoc, spoil, destruction strowed, .
While nations bleed along the plains,
Dragged at his chariot-wheels in chains?-
With fawning hand to woo the lyre,
Profanely steal celestial fire,
And bid an idol's altar blaze
With incense of unhallowed praise?—
With siren strains, Circean art,
To win the ear, beguile the heart,
Wake the wild passions into rage,
And please and prostitute the age?
No to the generous bard belong
Diviner themes and purer song:-
To hail religion from above,
Descending in the form of love,
And pointing through a world of strife
The narrow way that leads to life;-
To pour the balm of heavenly rest
Through sorrow's agonizing breast;
With Pity's tender arms embrace
The orphans of a kindred race;
And in one zone of concord bind
The lawless spoilers of mankind;
To sing in numbers boldly free
The wars and woes of liberty;
The glory of her triumphs tell,
Her nobler suffering when she fell,
Girt with the phalanx of the brave,
Or widowed on the patriot's grave,
Which tyrants tremble to pass by,
Even on the car of victory.
These are the bard's sublimest views,
The angel visions of the muse,
That o'er his morning slumbers shine;
These are his themes-and these were mine.
But pale despondency, that stole
The light of gladness from my soul,
While Youth and Folly blindfold ran
The giddy circle up to man,
Breathed a dark spirit through my lyre,
Dimmed the noon radiance of my fire,
And cast a mournful evening hue
O'er every scene my fancy drew.
Then though the proud despised my strain,
It flowed not from my heart in vain;
The lay of freedom, fervour, truth,
Was dear to undissembling youth,
From manly breasts drew generous sighs,
And Virtue's tears from Beauty's eyes.
My song of Sorrow reached her ear;
She raised her languid head to hear,
And, smiling in the arms of death,
She blessed me with her latest breath.
A secret hand to me conveyed
The thoughts of that inspiring maid;
They came like voices on the wind,
Heard in the stillness of the mind,
When round the poet's twilight walk
Aerial beings seem to talk.
Not the twin stars of Leda shine
With vernal influence more benign,
Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale,
Sings the lone-warbling nightingale,
Than through my shades her lustre broke,
Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.
My fancy formed her young and fair,
Pure as her sister lilies were,
Adorned with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves;
Heaven in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in her mien.
Such was the picture fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true;
The muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shown her likeness to my heart,
And every faithful feature brought
O'er the clear mirror of my thought,
-But she was waning to the tomb;
The worm of death was in her bloom;
Yet as the mortal frame declined,
Strong through the ruins rose the mind:
As the dim moon, when night ascends,
Slow in the east the darkness rends,
Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams,
Pours the mild splendour of her beams,
Then bursts in triumph o'er the pole,
Free as a disembodied soul !
Thus, while the veil of flesh decayed,
Her beauties brightened through the shade;
Charms which her lowly heart concealed
In nature's weakness were revealed;
And still the unrobing spirit cast
Diviner glories to the last,
Dissolved its bonds, and cleared its flight, Emerging into perfect light.
Yet shall the friends who loved her weep,
Though shrined in peace the sufferer sleep,
Though rapt to heaven the saint aspire,
With Seraph guards, on wings of fire;
Yet shall they weep;-for oft and well
Remembrance shall her story tell,
Affection of her virtues speak,
With beaming eye and burning cheek,
Each action, word, and look recall;
The last, the loveliest of all,
When on the lap of death she lay,
Serenely smiled her soul away,
And left surviving Friendship's breast
Warm with the sunset of her rest.
O thou, who wert on earth unknown,
Companion of my thought alone,
Unchanged in heaven to me thou art,
Still hold communion with my heart;
Cheer thou my hopes, exalt my views,
Be the good angel of my muse ;-
And if to thine approving ear
My plaintive numbers once were dear;
If, falling round thy dying hours,
Like evening dews on closing flowers,
They soothed thy pains, and through thy soul
With melancholy sweetness stole,
Hear me :-When slumber from mine eyes,
That roll in irksome darkness, flies;
When the lorn spectre of unrest
At conscious midnight haunts my breast;
When former joys, and present woes,
And future fears are all my foes;
Spirit of my departed friend,
Calm through the troubled gloom descend,
With strains of triumph on thy tongue,
Such as to dying saints are sung;
Such as in Paradise the ear
Of GOD Himself delights to hear:
Come all unseen; be only known
By Zion's harp of higher tone,
Warbling to thy mysterious voice;
Bid my desponding powers rejoice;
And I will listen to thy lay,
Till night and sorrow flee away,
Till gladness o'er my bosom rise,
And morning kindle round the skies.
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