Classic Poem

I.

Where dwells the spirit of the Bard — what sky
Persuades his daring wing, —
Folded in soft carnation, or in snow
Still sleeping, far o'er summits of the cloud,
And, with a seeming, sweet unconsciousness,
Wooing his plume, through baffling storms to fly,
Assured of all that ever yet might bless
The spirit, by love and loftiest hope made proud,
Would he but struggle for the dear caress! —
Or would his grant spring,
Impell'd by holiest ire,
Assail the sullen summits of the storm,
Bent with broad breast and still impatient form,
Where clouds unfold themselves in leaping fire!
What vision wins his soul, —
What passion wings his flight, —
What dream of conquest woos his eager eye! —
How glows he with the strife, —
How spurns he at control, —
With what unmeasured rage would he defy
The foes that rise around and threaten life! —
His upward flight is fair,
He goes through parting air,
He breaks the barrier cloud, he sees the eye that's there,
The centre of the realm of storm that mock'd him but to dare!
And now he grasps the prize,
That on the summit lies,
And binds the burning jewel to his brow;
Transfigured by its bright,
He wears a mightier face,
Nor grovels more in likeness of the earth; —
His wing a bolder flight,
His step a wilder grace,
He glows, the creature of a holier birth; —
Suns sing, and stars glow glad around his light;
And thus he speeds afar,
'Mid gathering sun and star,
The sov'ran, he, of worlds, where these but subjects are;
And men that mark'd his wing with mocking sight,
Do watch and wonder now; —
Will watch and worship with delight, anon,
When far from hiss and hate, his upward form hath gone!

II.

Oh! ere that van was won,
Whose flight hath braved the sun —
Whose daring strength and aim
Have scaled the heights of cloud and bared their breasts of flame;
What lowly toil was done, —
How slow the moments sped, —
How bitter were the pangs that vex'd the heart and head!
The burden which he bore,
The thorns his feet that tore,
The cruel wounds he suffer'd with no moan, —
Alone, — and still alone! —
Denial, which could smile,
Beholding, all the while,
How salter than the sea were the salt tears he shed;
And over all, the curse,
Than all of these more worse,
Prostrate, before the common way, to bear
The feet of hissing things,
Whose toil it is to tear,
And tramp the glorious creature born to wings!
Ah! should he once despair! —

III.

But, strength from lowliness, —
From patience, power, and pride, —
And freedom ever from the deep duresse!
These, to the one denied,
Still soothe the drear distress,
Brought by the very grief when well defied!
First, grovelling where he lay,
To want and woe the prey,
Unconscious that the darkness led to day;
With eyes from birth still seal'd,
As are the eaglet's ere they dream to fly,
The realm of open empire unreveal'd; —
First came the boon, — the precious boon — to see
That the broad firmament was spread above
A world that yet was free;
And, in the embracing and delicious air,
There hung great wings, whose plumage, bright with love,
Seem'd ever natural to the aim and eye! —
Were these but won! — with these! —
Oh! thence, with fond devotion, rose the prayer
For the one gift that promised such delight,
The single boon of flight! —
A prayer to make the hopeful heart grow wild! —
And, with the hope, still struggling, like the child,
To whom the eager mind the muscle brings, —
Not yet secure of foothold, but erect,
He grew, — in watches of the night, he grew,
When others slept, — in such secure degrees,
He vex'd no jealous view;
And thus the upward progress went uncheck'd;
And thus he put on wings; —
Until, with strength to soar,
He felt the earth no more,
And shook its dust away, and all its reptile things;
The eye and wing together won the height;
And they who mock'd and smote,
Might vainly hiss and roar,
With nothing left them but to dream and dote:
Unless — and this were something of a bliss,
Compensative, from mercy, for their hiss —
To bow, while yet they gaze, and in their shame, adore!

IV.

What if the toil and struggle were with earth?
The purpose of earth's self is for a sphere
In which she has no share; —
And thus it is that she may loathe the birth,
Wherein a spirit so rare
Makes her the rack on which to stretch his wings.
Vainly he loathes and strives;
The victim feels but thrives;
It is appointed he shall still go forth,
If that he neither yields him to her hate,
Nor subjugates his pinion to her snare;
And, it is written, his first passion flings
Her clay off with her fetters, and her stains
With all his immature pains; —
As, in the expression of a joy elate,
With the exulting sense of a new dawn,
One flings away the dreary doubt that pall'd,
With sense of weariness, at close of day,
And, with the merriest strains,
Bids them bring forth his steed upon the sun-bright law
He only hath to wait, —
To wait with confident heart; without complaint,
Endure, whate'er his lowliness of state, —
And, with a spirit resolved and never faint,
To struggle with the griefs that still oppress;
And the appointed moment will unscale
His eye, and he will break from all duresse,
To see the glowing vans, all purple-hued,
Stooping, with gradual waver, to his will; —
At dawn, when happiest dreams his pulses thrill,
To find them freshly to his shoulders glued;
Till, with a sense of upward life, he springs,
Scarce conscious of the motion of his wings,
To flight, and in his flight as all unconscious sings; —
Voice, wing, and eye, being children of a birth; —
Flight of a threefold power, that still implies,
When fairly parted from the enthralling earth,
The song, and sight, and soul, that shape it for the skies!

V.

If, for a moment, he forbears his flight,
Won by seducing siren of the shore,
Self-chidden, he is soon upon his way,
Still, upward, into light!
For, not in the embrace of mortal clay,
Sleeps long the soul of the imperial lyre!
The eye, that is the shoulder of his wing,
Still, in advance, beholds the approaching day,
Long ere the Night, her head on her own heart,
Hath girt her to depart!
And thus doth he aspire,
And thus doth he explore,
And thus he finds his freedom, spite of art,
That would beguile him from his great desire,
And bind him vassal to most lowly will!
'Tis by necessity that he breaks away,
From earth and bondage still!
The soul, that is his substance, warms with ire,
Impatient of each profitless delay;
And, though the song of the siren in his ear,
Works subtly in sweet mazes to his brain,
Yet ever a still voice of sadness tells
Of the past struggle, and the bitter care,
That kept him captive ever and in pain.
Thus warn'd, his better nature soon rebels,
And the false siren glozes still in vain.
Taught that a wing so nerved, need never pause
For rest which humble pinion may require,
He looks to far Parnassus, and takes hues,
Golden and azure, from the endowed shapes
That linger still above its sacred heights;
And, with the glad persuasion of his song,
And emulous passion stimulates his wing,
So that he passes by the guardian capes,
Triumphant, and, with progress of his own,
He challenges each proud and antique Muse,
By her own altars, to the great delights,
She has made holy — not that he would wring,
With proud compulsion, sad acknowledgment,
As of the presence of some nobler thing;
But that he fortifies the ancient cause,
Which many, by her own persuasions choose, —
With meet example; — and — her crown reset —
Doth, by his might, her primitive sway prolong. —
He sings, as she hath tutor'd him to sing,
A chant of ages that sustains her throne,
By catholic utterance of the great intent
Which makes her mission hallow'd, and for aye,
And, through a chosen race, o'er all asserts its sway!

VI.

'Twere vain to scan his office, and declare
The power he holds upon the earth and air,
And the sleek spirits that move them to their moods;
He is the sov'ran of the spell that sways
The groves in their spring sweetness — he hath power
To bring a sudden freshness to the hour —
Charm the green leaf, endow the purple flower,
And haunt with such a presence the great floods,
That there shall grow a glory on their banks,
And men shall gather from afar in ranks,
And bend before high altars he shall raise,
And speak with voices only won from him!
He shall bring beauty to the waste, and light
With bloom the wilderness, and so subdue
The terrors of the shade, that it shall be
Made sacred, with a halo, when most dim;
So that its dark, made beautiful to view,
Shall move new passion in the multitude,
To love the shadow whose obscurity
Hath lovelier eyes than haunt the might, and brood
Sad-smiling o'er still fountains that awake,
To fill their cisterns only for her sake!
For it hath been decreed his office still
To summon natural destinies, and invoke,
As with the simple utterance of his will,
The nimble servitors that love his yoke.
So, the devoted Passions hail his sway,
And Joy and Grief, with their link'd torches, glide,
Mute ever, but not heedless, night and day,
Serving his purpose, one on either side.
And hope, which is a feather from his plumes,
Now sinks, now falls, like shooting star through night,
And, even in falling, the abyss illumes, —
As memory of the first joy brings a light
To the sad eyes inhabited by woe —
The waving of a torch o'er mountain lake,
At midnight, while the storm-cloud, stooping low,
Hath iced it with a blackness naught may break.
Nor is he wanting in celestial aid; —
Love being his meekest servitor, with brow
Twined with the myrtle, ever speaking truth,
That never fears the forfeit of his vow,
And, bashful in her bright, but unafraid,
Bearing the rose that symbols innocent youth.

VII.

Not lonely, with the sad nymph Solitude,
Deep in the cover of the ancient wood,
Where the sun leaves him, and the happy dawn,
Stealing with blushes over the gray lawn,
Still finds him, all forgetful of the flight
Of hours, that passing still from dark to bright,
Know not to loiter, — all their progress naught: —
His eye, unconscious of the day, is bright
With inward vision; till, as sudden freed,
By the superior quest of a proud thought,
He darts away with an unmeasured speed;
His pinion purpling as he gains the height,
Where still, though all obscured from mortal sight,
He bathes him in the late smiles of the sun; —
And oh! the glory, as he guides his steed,
Flakes from his pinions falling, as they soar
To mounts where Eos binds her buskins on,
And proud Artemis, watching by her well,
For one, — sole-fortunate of all his race, —
With hand upon his mouth her beagle stays,
Lest he should baffle sounds too sweet to lose,
That even now are gliding with the dews.
How nobly he arrays
His robes for flight — his robes, the woven of songs,
Borrow'd from starry spheres, — with each a muse
That, with her harmonies, maintains its dance
Celestial, and its circles bright prolongs.
Fair ever, but with warrior form and face,
He stands before the eye of each young grace,
Beguiling the sweet passion from her cell,
And still subjecting beauty by the glance,
Which speaks his own subjection to a spell,
The eldest born of rapture, that makes Love,
At once submissive and the Conqueror.
He conquers but to bring deliverance,
And with deliverance light; —
To conquer, he has only to explore, —
And makes a permanent empire, but to spread, —
Though speeding on with unobserving haste, —
A wing above the waste.
A single feather from his pinion shed,
A single beam of beauty from his eye,
Takes captive the dim sleeping realm below,
Through eyes of truest worshippers, that straight
Bring shouts to welcome and bright flowers to wreathe
His altars; and, as those, to life from death,
Pluck'd sudden, in their gratitude and faith
Deem him a god who wrought the miracle, —
So do they take him to their shrines, and vow
Their annual incense of sweet song and smell,
For him to whom their happiness they owe.
Thus goes he still from desert shore to shore,
Where life in darkness droops, where beauty errs,
Having no worshippers,
And lacking sympathy for the light! — The eye,
That is the spirit of his wing, no more,
This progress once begun, can cease to soar,
Suffers eclipse, or sleeps! —
No more be furl'd
The wing, — that, from the first decreed to fly,
Must speed to daily conquests, deep and high,
Till no domain of dark unlighted keeps.
And all the realm of strife beneath the sky
Grows one, in beauty and peace for evermore, —
Soothed to eternal office of delight,
By these that wing the soul on its first flight,
For these are the great spirits that shape the world!