Classic Poem

An hour too early in the grove!
An hour for blissful dreams,
Which countless starry eyes above
Will gladden with their beams.

Through leaves and twigs they peep at me,
Like frolic elves at play,
Who slip behind rock, bush, or tree,
Whene'er one looks their way.

The varying screen through which I gaze,
Fantastic shapes assumes,
As with its breath the south wind sways
The tree-tops' yielding plumes;

Till rests my wandering glance upon
The steadfast star of Jove,
As lovers' eyes all others shun
Save those that drink their love.

I hearken to the village chime;
The first half-hour is past!
With what a funeral march old Time
Sets forth upon the last!

A dark cloud sailing by puts out
My lone star's radiant light;
Its shadow dims with sombre doubt
Fond hopes just now so bright.

Anon, upon the thirsty leaves
The pattering rain-drops fall,
The sky its swelling bosom heaves
And clouds each other call.

In place of heaven's fair face, alive
With kindly twinkling eyes,
Remote volcanoes seem to rive
The cloud-peaks of the skies,

Up-flaring, like the beacon's flame,
Which darts from crag to brow
On Alpine summits, and the gleam
Of arms reveals below.

The zephyr that with fond caress,
The prostrate leaves just stirred,
Until methought her rustling dress
And fairy foot I heard,—

Like a startled hind, now holds its breath,
As the north wind's eager pant
With a hiss, as of serpents bristling its path,
Comes driving the rain aslant;

Swaying the saplings of the wood
And its giants of stalwart form,
Who toss their arms, like a multitude
Applauding the voice of the storm.

Soon from the battlements of night,
Fierce lightning shafts are hurled,
Like meteors pre-Adamite
In the old chaotic world.

A roar, as of a smitten shield,
Responds to those red brands,
As when Salmoneus scorned to yield
To Jove's divine commands.

A roar as of caissons over a vault—
Each armed with a loaded gun—
Which on its summit a moment halt,
Then topple down one by one.

They are fired, first singly, and then pell-mell,
And the startled air is riven
By thunder crashes like echoes from Hell
Of its fiends besieging Heaven!

Appalled, I clasp in pallid dismay
The tryst-tree in the glade,
While gods and Titans in frantic affray
Ply round me their cannonade.

When lo! in the midst of that riot fell,
Through its bolts of deadly fire,
The silvery voice of the midnight bell
Speaks from the village spire.

As waived by a spell, the battle turns;
Its wild alarums cease;
The full moon now in the zenith burns;
All nature is at peace.

At chime the twelfth, my whispered name,—
And then—an angel's kiss!
Who would not brave that fearful dream
For the wealth of this waking bliss?