Classic Poem

In that blithe season, when on every spray
Love lifts the fluttering wing, and warms each flow'r,
In muse-frequented, fancy-coloured bower,
Sleep's pris'ner, lock'd in vision deep, I lay:
Isis, fair river, flow'd the bower beside,
Moist'ning the willowy bank with kisses sweet,
While Cherwell pours along her silver tide,
The sister-stream in kind embrace to meet:—
“Ah! thus I cried, as these mild streams combine,
“Might man with fellow man in friendly union join.”

The stately sun had left his midday throne;
And on the waters play'd his sloping beam;
Silent a-while the feather'd warblers seem,
And faint with heat the daisied meadows shone.
Soon as soft slumbers have ensnar'd my eyes,
I hear a voice, that speaks in accent strong;
“Bright scenes shall rise successive; man, be wise,
“And mark each shadowy form that glides along.”
Now all is still: a fairer landscape shines,
Of Nature's liveliest green, of Beauty's boldest lines.

A reverend dame appears before my sight,
Experienc'd much thro' years, and yet most fair,
Solemn of thought, and of majestic air,
And rob'd in party-colours, black and white.
She hails me son; and then, with piteous look
She gaz'd at me, that sore my heart did weep:—
“And where,” she cried, “is now thy shepherd's crook?
“And why didst thou forsake my tender sheep?
“A shepherd-dame, I felt a mother's joy,
“That I had plac'd thee here, a humble shepherd's boy.

Beside the dame did sit an aged man,
Cloth'd, as beseemeth age, in vestments grave,
And he my feet from devious paths would save,
Would form a wayward mind by wisdom's plan,
And in his hand he held some purpling fruits,
Which in a sparkling goblet he did squeeze;
“And drink,” he cry'd, “for well the mixture suits
“The fickle soul, that vagrant fancies please:
“No treacherous juice, no cup Circean, mine;
“No heathen-goblet draught; but take the drink divine.”

Hard by on humble briar, a darkling sprite,
Suspicion , fat, as musing secret care;
And loud she screams around, “Beware, Beware,”
Monotonous, as hoots the bird of night.—
The loud coarse thrillant note has pierc'd my heart,
Till dark misgivings all my soul enchain;
Sudden and wild that aged pair depart,
As down I dash the bowl in proud disdain.
Nor will the darkling spirit longer stay,
But spreads his elfin-wing, and he is sped away.

This vision past, my dazzled eyes behold
A form descend, that nine fair virgins led:
A glory beams from his ambrosial head:
Bright are his eyes: his locks all shining gold:
A golden chaplet binds his comely brows;
His golden lyre with tuneful art is strung:
And now, with musings deep his visage glows,
While nature rapt in mute attention hung.
But when the immortal minstrel strikes the lyre,
What high-born raptures seize that blest enthusiast choir!

What pencil may describe those virgins fair,
Their mystic forms, their eyes of heav'nly light!
Where poesy and music's power unite,
Who may their many—mingling charms declare?
These damsels sing in turn, then sweep the string
Of loftier harp, or breathe the melting lute,
Now clang the citterns, now the cymbals ring,
As different sounds the differing genius suit.
Thus fancy ever various loves to please,
Thus from light discord calls the sweeter harmonies.

Proud was their song of Gods and Heroes brave,
Of Jove loud-thundering, and his awful Queen,
And her, the virgin rare, of sylvan mien,
And beauty's Goddess, sprung from ocean-wave:
Nor less of her, the warrior, from whose eye
Beam'd wisdom, Gorgon—Terror from whose breast,
And him that God, who lifts the tempest high,
Or calms, at will, the raging sea to rest:
All, to whose power immortal heights belong;
All, whom the Muse has deign'd to raise in deathless song.

But quickly now successive to my view,
Far different forms, and different scenes arise,
Suns dazzling bright, and ever purpling skies,
Ambrosial streams, and fields of heavenly hue:
And far away a wide-extended stream,
Sacred the name, and dear in Eastern lore,
(More stately lives not in poetic dream)
Rolls its proud wave beside the silent shore.
And hark! a thousand songs to Mithra rise,
Luxuriant as the fields, and glowing as the skies.

The rapt'rous notes fill every sacred bower,
Till now, as slumb'ring, clos'd the eye of day;
Then pours the nightingale a liquid lay,
Perch'd on a branch beside a favourite flower:
And near the flower his eyes are glittering bright;
And near the flower his notes so wildly rove,
As though his little breast with fond delight
Would break, and blooming Rosa was his love.
“Sweetest of flowers, Oh! still thy stay prolong;
“Oh! sweetest bird, still pour thy soothing melting song.”

The scene is chang'd—now towering forms I view,
With limbs of giant size, and yellow hair:
And loud to heav'n they lift the warlike air;
Bold is their front: their eyes of azure blue.
Louder and louder still resounds the strain:
Wild clash the shields, responsive to the sound;
While warriors, mailed in horror, scour the plain,
And griefly foemen, groaning, bite the ground!
“Joy to the brave!” I hear the bardic cry;
“Lift high (the day is won) the song of victory.”

And now fantastic forms around are seen,
Goblins and Griffins, sprites, a motley band,
And he who-whilom rul'd in fairy land,
That merry pranking king and elfin queen.
“Oh! stay thee Oberon! lo! a gentle knight
“Implores thy aid, on val'rous deeds intent;
“True to his love, and panting for the fight,
“On great emprize for distant regions bent.”
Oberon is stay'd;—and “take that horn; he cries,
“And take that sacred ring, and ev'ry danger flies.”

And lo! a castle rears its lofty wall,
And fiery dragons guard the building round;
Ah! who would dare to tread infernal ground?
The knight has dared: no terrors may appal:
Though hell were hear the place he must advance:
Deep foams his fiery steed, and prances high,
Till by the terror of his flaming lance
Close-lock'd in death those raving monsters lie.
Loud blows his horn: the gates wide open spread;
And proud he enters in, and towers his crested head.

And, oh! what freezing scenes to view unfold!
How stare, with horror wild, his stony eyes!
What piteous howlings, and what frantic cries—
Stound are his ears! his blood runs shivering—cold!
Here deep enthrall'd lies many a lady bright,
Ah! doom'd by giant curs'd to writhe in pain,
Or yield, vile service! to his damn'd delight,
Who, deep retir'd, here holds his dev'lish reign.
But by the knight's stout arm, that monster fell
Has felt the stroke of death, and hastens down to hell.

“Now, ladies, take heav'n's fairest, richest boon.
“Freedom is yours, God-speed you on your way:—
And now the knight shall hail the blissful day;
Great his emprize, and he shall triumph soon:
A princess bright (such honours crown the brave)
In pride of youth awaits thy wish'd return;
Full many a fair, sir knight, 'twas thine to save;
Nor vainly could that breast with glory burn.
—And now the fairy scene eludes my sight;
Fled is the princess fair, and fled the valorous knight.

But hark! the master of the Runic rhime,
Strikes the hoarse shell, and wakes the rumbling lay;
And lo! the fire of men pursues his way,
To try Vasthrudnis skill in truth sublime.
Now Gothic wisdom beams upon my sight;
Now mystic truth enchains my wond'ring mind;
Whence earth and heav'n, and all those worlds of light,
The mighty Gods, and heroes of mankind;
The morning's virgin eye, Eve's purple glow,
And ev'ry flower that blooms, and all the herbs that grow.

But thick now hurtling in the murky air,
See glittering helms, and many a quivering lance!
And, lo! the fatal sisters now advance,
Orkney, for woe! Erin for woe prepare!
Lo! North and South the griefly spectres fly:
Grim-visag'd Terror scowls on ev'ry plain;
And hark! the pond'rous groan, the frantic cry,
The cry, the groan of many a hero slain.
—Close, scene of horror, on my aching eyes!
The fatal dames are sped;—and lo! the vision flies.

But mighty squadrons now embattle round;
And guilty conquest stains the reeking field:
Heralds of peace—must they to fury yield?
Shall unarm'd victims feel the deadly wound?
Yes! they have fall'n; the Bards, fair Cambria's pride,
Truth's tuneful priests, to heav'n they lift the prayer.
Yet not unmourn'd the blameless victims died;
See distant Harpers hov'ring in the air;
While brave Aneurin mourns his Hoel slain;
And pity droops the head at soft Lewellyn's strain.

Thus do these visionary pageants gleam;
Some now retire, while others glittering rise;
As once those angel-shapes from opening skies,
Passing, repassing, liv'd in Jacob's dream.
Ah! scenes that live in Fancy's fruitful eye!
Ah! forms that can beguile a life of woe!
Who, proud in truth, would ev'ry day-dream fly,
Who, rob'd in wisdom Fancy's charm forego?
Return! unreal forms, if ye can please;
Oh! take my sober thoughts, and bathe my soul in ease.

Last in the train I hear a tuneful band,
(Still vibrates on my ear the various song)
To whom the potent charms of verse belong;
Mortals they seem, and seem of diff'rent land:
Their voices diff'rent, loud, soft, shrill, and clear:
How drinks my ear the many-mingling lay!
How thrills my heart with pity, love, and fear,
As pierc'd with horror wild, or transport gay!
Trembling, I cry, “Oh, might I aid that choir!”
But fruitless all the pray'r—the shadowy groups retire.

Now all is past, and not a form is seen;
While silence reigns—(as when a vernal shower
On verdant meadow sheds the fruitful store,
And leaves the grateful landscape all serene)
But soon,—thus changeful is the life of man—
Some genius leads me to a secret cave,
Form'd by proportion's nicest, truest plan,
And ocean rolls beside the placid wave.
Straight as I enter, oh! what sweet surprise
Has seiz'd my raptur'd heart, and fill'd my ravish'd eyes!

There art had cull'd from nature stores divine;
There plac'd in brilliant rows with studious care,
Whatever boasts the sea of treasures rare;
Whate'er of sparkling ore conceals the mine;
The branching coral, red, and white, and blue;
The silvery pearl, the crystal bright and clear,
Em'ralds of green, the ruby's scarlet hue,
The pride of climes, and blossoms of the year;
All that could please and charm a gazer's eyes;
For here, though small the spot, did smile a paradise.

By nymphs attended, here a sylvan maid
(Cities she fled, and spurns the chain of love;
Her love, to range the mountain, stream, and grove)
Finds rest and coolness in the quiet shade.
And near an aged dame, of power supreme,—
Prolific parent she, the sov'reign high
Of nature's boundless realms—yet fond did seem
Of simplest chaplet, cull'd from meadow nigh.
How mild hereye!—Thus beams the morning light—
How all the goddess form now swells upon my sight!

“Be thine,” she said, and gaz'd upon the flow'rs,
With looks of melting sweetness and delight,
“With many a dazzling scene to feast thy sight;
“To follow fiction through her magic bow'rs;
“To trip with fancy on her airy dance,
“With tiptoe revelries, and wild surprise:
“To mark each pageant in its proud advance
“From shadowy deeps, and visionary skies;
“Sweet are the haunts, wherever genius roves,
“Through fields of vision'd bliss, or academic groves.

“Sooth'd into softness by the melting song,
“Charm'd into reverence by the mighty theme,
“Be thine to kindle at each Muses' dream,
“To hail with rev'rence all the tuneful throng.
“Their's be the praise,—nor slender be the praise,—
“To wake new worlds, to burst the bounds of time,
“Their stately monument of fame to raise,
“And on the heart to bind the magic rhyme:
“Bold their design, each daring charm to seize,
“And rouze to wonder, where they mean to please.

“Thine be the warblings of the humbler lyre,
“Humble, but not inglorious: thine to sing,
“The morning's glittering eye, the virgin spring,
“The power of beauty, Freedom's holy fire;
“To guide the youthful poet on his way;
“To rouze the virtues, soothe the soul of pain.”
—Enough: if genius may but feel the lay;
Enough: if friendship but approve the strain;
And if,—for life's short day-dream soon shall fly,—
The muse may charm a pang, or check a rising sigh.