Classic Poem

I.

H E is a god who wills it, — with a power
To work his purpose out in earth and air,
Though neither speak him fair! —
So may he pluck from earth its precious flower,
And in the ether choose a spirit rare,
To serve him deftly in some other sphere; —
And thus it is that I have will'd this hour,
And thou hast heard me, and thy form is here!

II.

Creature of wing and eye,
That, singing, seek'st the sky,
And soar'st because thou sing'st, and singing, still must fly;
Believe me, though I know not mine own voice,
I see thee, and before thee I rejoice;
Thou, precious in both worlds, with thy sole choice
In ours, I bless thee that I knew thee first,
Ere, in the dawn of mortal joys, my heart,
Low-fashion'd by its fond caprice and art,
Had been for thy blest offices accurst; —
Denied the commerce of thy griefs, which bring
The wholesome of Love's sweetness with the sting; —
The love which Sin hath nurst, —
But nursing, could not keep, —
Soothed by delicious dews, the soul that steep,
And circumvent the wing! —
Oh! thou hast heard me; — heard me and com'st down,
Amid the silence and the shade, a gleam;
I see the glimmer of thy golden crown,
I feel thy wing in murmur, and I dream —
Dream of thy pleasant provinces, which lie
Still open to the conqueror, who, no more
May rifle, than resist, thy precious store,
Which grows, the more he spoils, the more beneath his eye!

III.

Oh! thou hast heard me with no jealous grace, —
Hast heard me, and approv'st the daring quest,
Which, heedless of this lowliness of place,
Would build thee here a shrine, — and, to my breast,
Implore thee, that I may be lifted high
To thy vast realms, that still entreat mine eye,
Shining through fields of vision, by the star,
Most sacred, which, at evening and at dawn,
First comes to teach us where the bright ones are,
Each, in his place, upon the heavenly lawn; —
All open to thy wing, that, dusk and day,
Descend'st and risest, — lifting, at each flight,
Some hopeful spirit, that, beneath thy ray,
Grows fitted to a world of more delight! —
Oh! not for thee to censure lowliness,
Save in the soul; which, grovelling as it goes,
Sees not the bright wings that descend to bless,
And will not seek where the true fountain flows!
And he whom man denies,
Hath but to lift his eyes,
Touch'd by thy breath, fresh-parted from the skies,
And the walls tumble outward that did bound,
And, skyward, the blue deepens; and, in air,
A flutter of the happiest wings is found,
Diffusing sweets that earth still finds too rare; —
And faith takes both her wings —
Will, that o'er mortal things
Still sways, as doth the wand o'er hidden springs;
And Love, that, in her trust,
Holds empire over dust,
And lifts to very life the soul to which she clings!
These grow to freedom with thy downward flight,
While the gross earth, bedarken'd in the bright,
That kindles on his sight,
Feels all its pomps grow naught,
Subject to that great thought,
Borne on thy matchless plumes, by which the soul is taught.

IV.

I know my undeserving — know how vain
The poor equivalent of love I bring,
And yet once more I do solicit thee; —
Again! oh! yet again!
Sit by me as thou didst, my beautiful!
When life was but a blossom of the spring,
And thou its zephyr — sit by me and sing.
Thy voice of tears will medicine the gloom
That hangs about my spirit, and set free
That bird of faith that only finds its wing
In thy melodious coming. Chase away
These threatening shapes that cloud my lonely room,
And wrap me in their moody grasp all day!
Come, — for thou only canst, — oh! come and lull,
With the sweet reedy music of thy tone,
The weary spirit left too much alone
By the gay strollers of this idle time;
Yet, deem me not irreverent when I ask! —
With thee, the creature of the wing and eye, —
A bird-flight not a task! —
'Twere easy to adjure, from stars sublime,
Such mighty sorrows, as, through these old walls,
Would leave a thousand echoes gushing free; —
At every trailing of a spirit's train,
Recalling still that strain,
That woke me to thy presence first, when far
Led by a single star,
And following in the wake of fancies sweet,
I wander'd deep into the mountain halls,
And ever, through the flashes of the storm,
Beheld a flitting form;
And heard, when winds grew hush'd, the sounds of falling feet!

V.

I know, with various wing, that thou canst soar
To realms that know no sorrow — that thy flight
Can waft thee to vain regions of delight,
Where wings may rather wanton than explore; —
But not to provinces like these I pray
Thy pinions; nor for me that idle lore,
That only seeks to wile, or win, by art,
The vigilant hours that watch through the long day; —
Those foolish madrigals that chase away,
As old men laugh, time's wrinkles; — the vain joke
That shakes the theatre, while, for the nonce,
The buffoon triumphs in the sage's cloak,
And wisdom, all forgetful of his part,
Grows heedless of the white upon his sconce,
Nor deafens as he shakes his borrow'd bells! —
Nor should you win me when the drama tells
The sportive passions of that wayward god,
Who, riding Libya's lion, yet with craft,
Still wings his wanton shaft,
Subduing mightiest spirits into shame;
Till lowlier men grow scornful of the fame,
That took the name of glory, ere the sport
Of that boy-archer shook their high report! —
As Love is in thy office, let the strain,
That teaches me his affluence, be implored
From the full heart and the sincerest thought; —
As if the captive thus had been restored
To passions of great pride and purest gain, —
Such as, by truth made plain,
Had never partaken of the pernicious fruit
That held the reptile in its core, and brought
Caprice, that ever must the soul imbrute!
Bring me to knowledge of that nobler flame
That never clouds with shame;
That freely may declare its aim and birth,
Nor glow, all doubtful of its proper name.
Impure, unhallow'd, on the hallow'd hearth!
Mine be the creature of a faith that brooks
No fashioning art or offices of man;
But, for its laws and properties, still looks
To the true purpose, first in nature's plan,
Decreed, ere rolling spheres and twinkling orbs began.

VI.

Thine is the night, the cloud, the lone, the far;
Thou bring'st to eve her star:
The cloud from thee receives its wing for flight,
And, clothed in purple light,
Goes sailing, richly freighted, to the sea! —
And thou hast cheer'd the solitude for me; —
Hast borne me, when the fetters of earth had worn
Into the soul its scorpion lash had torn, —
Borne me, triumphant, from my lonely cell,
To freedom, in far empires of the night; —
The freedom of the rugged mountain's height;
The strange companions of the haunted dell;
Great fields of blue, star-lighted, — while the cloud
Lay mantling o'er the city like a shroud,
And all behind was sad, and all before was bright!
Long vistas of the wood were wooing, — gay,
Sprinkt with the droplets which the sun had left,
Fast hurrying, having loiter'd on his way; —
These, in green thick close hid, and rocky cleft,
Made rich the solemn shadows of the wood;
So that the pilgrim, consciously astray,
Might wander still, since all around was good.
Thus night is in thy keeping! Thou alone
Canst take the veil from off her matron brow,
And bid the dreamer gladden in her sight.
Thou mak'st the secrets of her mansion known,
Her mansion, gloomy with excess of bright; —
And, from its wealth, surpassing mortal show,
The starr'd luxuriance of her pillar'd throne,
Thou canst extort her music — a lament,
As if the stars and winds together made
A requiem o'er the glories that must fade, —
Such as might issue, on a god's descent
From some high sphere his presence once had sway'd.
'Tis thine to put a soul into this train,
While earth is sleeping — blasted from her birth
Into unmusical barrenness and dearth,
Such as might move her ne'er to wake again,
Did it not pleasure her vain pride to spoil,
With keen and clamorous coil,
The delicate labors of our secret toil,
To break upon the midnight watch we keep —
Forgetting sleep,
Here, charming night and silence from the deep,
Stars stooping round us ever as they shine,
While wings, from off thy shoulders, grow to mine.