The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eidolon, by Walter R. Cassels This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Eidolon The Course of a Soul and Other Poems Author: Walter R. Cassels Release Date: December 13, 2009 [EBook #30672] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIDOLON *** Produced by Ritu Aggarwal, Thanks to the National Library of Australia and the Thomas Cooper Library (University of South Carolina) for supplying pages for this work, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net EIDOLON, OR THE COURSE OF A SOUL; AND OTHER POEMS, BY WALTER R. CASSELS LONDON WILLIAM PICKERING 1850 TO CHARLES PEEL, THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND, W. R. CASSELS. CONTENTS. [Pg vii] Page Eidolon 1 Alcesté 93 Pygmalion 136 Miscellaneous Poems. Ode to Fancy 159 What is a sigh? 165 Ione 167 Reality 169 Retrospection 172 The Stormy Petrel 181 To —— 183 The Mermaid 185 The Spirit of the Air 190 Why do I love thee? 195 Lady Annabel 196 To Jenny Lind 201 The Gold Seekers 204 To Woman 209 The Poet 212 Evening 224 Life 226 Sorrow 229 Sonnets. I. Written at Ulleswater 233 II. "There is a spell by which the panting soul" 234 III. "We wander on through life as pilgrims do" 235 IV. "Sweet spirits of the Beautiful! where'er ye dwell," 236 V. "We are ambitious overmuch in life," 237 VI. "Mountains! and huge hills! wrap your mighty forms" 238 VII. To Ella 239 VIII. "I traverse oft in thought the battle-plain" 240 INTRODUCTION TO EIDOLON. Hazlitt says, one cannot "make an allegory go on all fours," it must to a certain degree be obscure and shadowy, like the images which the traveller in the desert sees mirrored on the heavens, wherein he can trace but a dreamy resemblance to the reality beneath. It therefore seems to me advisable to give a solution of the "Eidolon," the symbol, which follows, that the purpose of the poem may at once be evident. In "Eidolon" I have attempted to symbol the course of a Poet's mind from a state wherein thought is disordered, barren and uncultivated, to that which is ordered and swayed by the true Spirit of Poetry, and holds its perfect creed. I have therefore laid the scene on a desert island, whence, as from the isolation of his own mind, he reflects upon the concerns of life. At first he is a poet only by birthright 'Poeta nascitur.' He has the [Pg viii] [Pg ix] [Pg x] poet's inherent love for the Beautiful, his keen susceptibility of all that is lovely in outward nature, but these are only the blossoms which have fallen upon him from the Tree of Life, the fruit is yet untasted. He has looked at the evil of the world alone, and seeing how much "the time is out of joint" has become misanthropic, and turns his back alike on the evil and the good. Then comes Night, the stillness of the soul, with starlight breaking through the gloom. He gazes on other worlds, and pictures there the perfection he sighs for, but cannot find in this. Thus by the conception of a higher and nobler existence acquiring some impetus towards its realization. We then find him lying in the sunshine with the beauties of Nature around him, whose silent teaching works upon him till the true Spirit of Poetry speaks within his soul, and combats the misanthropy and weakness of the sensuous Man, showing him that Action is the end of Life, not mere indulgence in abstract and visionary rhapsodies. In the next scene he makes further advances, for the spirit of Poetry shows him that the beauty for which he has sought amongst the stars of heaven lies really at his feet; that Earth, too, is a star capable of equal brightness with those on which he gazes. He is thus brought from the Ideal to the Real. The fifth scene emblems the influence of Love on the soul. It is the nurse of Poetry, and Sorrow is the pang which stimulates the divine germ into active vitality. Had he been entirely happy, and the course of his love run smooth, he would have been content to enjoy life in ease and idleness. Next we find him looking broadly on life, on its utmost ills as well as its beauties, but not with the eye of the misanthrope, but of the Physician who searches out disease that he may find the remedy, and though the soul still sighs for the serenity and placid delight of the ideal life, the world of Thought, the glorious principle of Poetry prevails, and he sacrifices self-ease, feeling that he has a nobler mission than to dream through life, and that here he must labour ere he can earn the right to rest. Thus in the last scene the Spirit and the Man have become one—he is truly a Poet. His prayer maintains the direct and divine inspiration of the Poet-Priest. The action in short is the conflict of two principles within the breast, the False and the True, ending in the extinction of error and the triumph of truth. EIDOLON, OR THE COURSE OF A SOUL. Scene. A desert Island. The sea-shore. Man. How lonely were I in this solitude, This atom of creation which yon wave, White with the fury of a thousand years, Might gulf into oblivion, if the soul Knew circumscription. Far as eye can reach Around me lies a wild and watery waste, With every billow sentinel to keep Its prisoner fetter'd to his ocean cell— What were it but a plunge—an instant strife— Then liberty snatch'd from the clutch of Death The Tyrant, who with mystic terror grinds Men into slaves—But he who thinks is free, And fineless as the unresting winds of heaven, Now rushing with wild joy around the belt Of whirling Saturn, then away through space Till he and all his radiant brotherhood Dwindle to fire-flies round the brow of Night. Thought is the great creator under God, Begotten of his breathing, that can raise Shapes from the dust and give them Beauty's soul; [Pg xi] [Pg xii] [Pg 1] [Pg 2] And though my empire be a continent, Squared down from leagues to inches, what of that? The mind contains a world within its frame Which Fancy peoples o'er with radiant forms, Replete with life and spirit excellence. O! there is glory in the thought that now I stand absolved from all the chilling forms And falsities of life, that like frail reeds Pierce the blind palms of those that lean on them, And from the springs of my own being draw All strength, and hope, and joyance, all that makes Lone meditations sweet, and schools the heart For prophecy. In the o'erpeopled world We seem like babes that cannot walk alone, But fasten on the skirts of other men, Their creeds, conclusions, and vain phantasies, Too languid, or too weak to poize ourselves; But here the crutch is shattered at a blow, Dependence made a thing for winds to blast, And paraphrase in bitter mockery. From this retreat, as from a cloister calm, I dream upon the busy haunts of men As things that touch me not. An empire riven, A monarchy o'erthrown, here seem to me Importless as a foam-bell's death. The world And all its revolutions are now less Within my chronicles, than is the ken Of a star's orbit on the fines of space; But like a mariner saved from the wreck On this calm spot I stand, unscathed, secure From the rough throbbings of the sea of strife, And woe, and clamour, wherewith this world's life Ebbs and declines unto the printless shore Of death. O! blessed change, if there were one To love me in this solitude, and make Life beautiful. My soul is wearied out With earth's fierce warfare, and its selfish ease; The slights and coldness of the hollow crowds That are its arbiters; the changeful face, The upstart arrogance of base-born fools, Who crown them with their golden dross, and deem That the all-potent badge of sovereignty. O thou, my heart! hast thou not framed for life A golden palace in all solitude, Whither the strains of quiet melodies Float on the breath of memory, like songs From the dim bosom of the evening woods, Peopling its chambers with sweet poesy? Hast thou not called the sunshine from the morn To circle thee with a pure spirit life, And with the softness of its tender arms Clasp thee in the embrace of heav'nly love? Hast thou not heard the music of the stars, In the calm stillness of the summer night, And read their jewell'd pages o'er and o'er, Like the bright inspirations of a bard, Till glowing strophes rung within thy soul Of glad Orion and clear Pleiades? Hast thou not seen the silv'ry moonshine thrill Upon the dusky mantle of the night, Like radiant glances through a maiden's veil, Till shaken thence they fell in a pure shower O'er flood and field and bosky wilderness, [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] Wreathing earth with the glory of a saint? O! thus to dwell far from the stir of life, Far from its pleasures and its miseries, Far from the panting cry of man's desire, That waileth upward in hoarse discontent, And here to list but to that liquid voice That riseth in the spirit, and whose flow Is like a rivulet from Paradise— To hear the wanderings of divine thought Within the soul, like the low ebb and flow Of waters in the blue-deep ocean caves, Forming itself a speech and melody Sweeter than words unto the aching sense— To stand alone with Nature where man's step Hath never bowed a grass-blade 'neath its weight, Nor hath the sound of his rude utterance Broken the pauses of the wild-bird's song; And thus in its unpeopled solitude To be the spirit of this universe, Centering thought and reason in one frame, And in the majesty of quenchless soul, Rising unto the stature of a man, That is to make life glorious and great, Dissolving matter in the spiritual, As the green pine dissolveth into flame; Not on the breath of popular applause That is the spectre of all nothingness; Not on the fawning of a servile crew, Who kiss the hem of fortune's purple robe, And lick the dust before prosperity, Waiting the cogging of the downward scale, To turn from slaves to bravos in the dark; Not on the favours of the politic, Who in the smile of honour, Persian-like, Pamper the pampered from their banquet halls, But to his starving cry, when fortune frowns, Mutter their falsehoods through the bolted gate; But in the brightness of the inner soul, The placitude of peace and holy thought, The joyous lightness of the spirit's wings, Sweeping with equal strokes the azure sky Of Present, Past, and wide Futurity; In the high tidemarks on the sands of life, Where thought hath swept her purifying wave, Bearing the treasures of the unsearched deep To swell the riches of humanity. That is a happiness apart from man To aid, to sympathise with, or destroy; In its calm solitude alike secure From the broad adulation of the weak, And the strained condescension of the great, Both insults to the mighty soul within, That is not prized but for its golden shrine. Here there is that which makes the spirit free And noble in the measure of its strength, Untrammelled by conventionalities That make the very light of heaven take worth According to the casement it shines through. O solitude! thy blessed power hath swept All earthly passions from my soul like weeds That choke the issues of eternal love. What now to me are hatred and revenge? Thoughts that if fleeting through the mind would fall [Pg 6] [Pg 7] Like unknown birds upon a foreign shore, Strange, wonderful; where no false hearts are nigh To poison life with variance and strife. O holy Nature! thou art only love And peace and universal unity, From thy sweet bosom springeth up no seed Of bitterness and sorrow, that like thorns Cling to the vesture of mortality, Piercing the spirit through with cruel woe. With thee my soul could dwell for evermore, Expanding all good feelings day by day, Till, at the last, like roses in full bloom The blossoms fall from pure maturity. Pride! Here no scale of inches is set up For man to strain his littleness against, But o'er me hangs the majesty of heaven, Bright with the glory of the noontide sun; Beneath, the Earth, that whispers "Thou art dust, "Gat like a child forth from my fertile womb, "And bone of my bone, thus, flesh of my flesh!" Thou glorious firmament that like God's love Enfoldest all creation utterly, Making the pathway of the wheeling spheres A splendour, and a triumph, and a joy, That on the brightness of thine azure breast Settest the constellated stars like gems, To flash the glory of thy loveliness Through all the fulness of unmeasured space. Can madness in its raving cast a thought To soar unto thy blessed perfectness, Nor stand subdued with reverence and awe In contemplation of the Infinite? O Earth! thou Mother and true Monitress! Can thy frail children close their ears for aye 'Gainst the deep-hearted warnings of thy voice? In the wild whirl of life the tones may die Amid the clangour of contending foes, But here, as in the stillness of the night, Thy solemn teaching falleth on the soul To the vibration of the low heart-beat. Then what is there to charm me back to life? To wrestle with the guilty and the vain, And lose identity amid the crowd Who struggle onward after base desire. This quiet scene doth teach me how to weigh Your pleasures and your vanities aright; To hold as dross the honour that is flung Around man like a winter covering, Which the same hand can pluck away again, And leave the outcast shivering in the blast. There is no honour saving that within, Which none, nor man, nor Death itself can snatch, But which falls from the spirit in its flight Like a prophetic mantle upon Time. Pleasure! O World! in thine insanity Thou sinkest Soul into a poor buffoon, Garbëd in tinsel and false ornament To play its antics on the stage of life, A thing for fools to laugh at in their mirth. Thou sat'st thy lust upon the sapless husks That strew the highways of this pilgrimage, Closing thine eyes unto their emptiness, And out of folly turning sour to sweet. Hast thou the joy that nature's converse sheds [Pg 8] [Pg 9] [Pg 10] Thro' all the pulses of the quiet soul? The gentle calm that like a whispered song Steals o'er the sense with sweetest languishment? Hast thou the magic of the Beautiful, Wreathing about thy spirit evermore, In sunshine and in shadow; when the stars Gather around the azure dome of heaven, And the pale moon glides like a virgin bride Humbly behind the footsteps of her love: When the sweet morn dawns on the sleeping world To bring reality to visions bright; And on the curtain of dissolving mist Arches the many-tinted sign of heaven? Hast thou the minstrelsie of the wild woods, Clear-tided strains floating along the sky, Swelling, subsiding, like a silvery sea Beneath the dulcet breathing of the south? Hast thou that essence of all joyousness— The glorious independence of the soul— That spurneth man's usurpëd tyranny, The power of wealth, and hapless circumstance, And, sweeping on its own unaided wings, Measures the circuit of the boundless sky? What is thy wealth, that fadeth in the use, And all the pomp and vanity it buys, To the rich treasure of undying thought, Encreasing evermore, till like a dower It benizon humanity for aye? All thy poor gold resolveth into dust Before the test of such a scene as this: Can it charm forth the blossom of a flower Ere summer bids it with her gentle smile? Can it restore the verdure to the leaf When yellow Autumn marks it for her own? Or, in the noontide bid the dew-shower rise To fill one rosy chalice to the brim? Go! gild thee with it, worldling, as thou wilt, Yet all thy pains will leave thee but a fool! Ay! there is love to beckon me away And lead me to a fountain of delight, Gliding before me in its purity, Like some bright angel guiding souls to heaven. O Love! have I not drained thee to the dregs, Thy pleasures and thy sorrows equally; Clinging unto thee as the Arab doth To his low fountain in the wilderness? Have I not gazed into thy tender eyes And read the secret of thy holiness, Cleansing my soul in humbleness and faith, To shrine thee in thy fulness evermore? Have I not clasped thee in my frenzied arms And heard thy heart-beats answer back to mine, Fainter and fainter till the deep voice stilled In the eternal silence of the grave? O be to me henceforth but some sweet dream Illumining the sky of Memory: A fixëd star of everlasting light To pilot me along the sea of life, And keep the bearings of the spirit true. Visit me in imagination's train, The sweetest and the fairest child of Thought, Till thro' my being, as thro' columned aisles When incense from the altar upward wreaths, There float the fragrance of thy breath divine. [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] Circle my soul in its far wanderings Thro' spirit lands and empyrean heights, Where though it sink in wide bewilderment, Thou wilt enfold it in thy dewy arms, And pillow it to strength and fearlessness! Be to me like a heaven beyond all Time, Dreamt of, and worshipped in this pilgrimage— The habitation of all pure desire, Solace of sorrow, and the home of rest, Where I may lay me from life's troublous way, And feel Eternity rise in my soul! No, World! the cords that bound me unto thee Are snapt in sunder ne'er to join again, Thy voice is waning fainter on mine ear, And thine allurements powerless and vain. There springeth up within me a new want, A perfect yearning for the spiritual, That shaketh from its pinions all the cares And interests of earth, like cleaving dust That clogs its upward winging to the skies. Wend onward, as thou wilt in weal or woe, Swell the rude triumph of thy battle march, Spread thy gay banners broadly to the wind, And let thy clarions ring among the spheres; Laurel thy heroes and thy favourites, And pluck the crowns again from off their brows; Worship thy follies, and thine empty gains, And barter life for mammon—gold for dross. Here let me lie upon the rear of Time, Unheeded, unremembered, and alone, Like a quick seed dropt by a flying dove, That groweth unto blossom and to fruit! Scene. Night. Man. How still are all things now in earth and heaven! From the green-tided woods no rippling stir Breaks on the shore of silence; the sweet birds That sing, like naiads from the crystal deeps, Amid the murmurous coverts, now are mute As dreams of faded happiness, and life Seems calmly slumb'ring in the arms of death. The far waves alone are rocking in unrest, With moonlight flashing o'er them, but their sound Dies in their own wild bosom, like a song Murmuring in the spirit of a man. Thus is a poet's soul!—around it hangs The darkness of this world's reality, Its cares and struggles and necessities; But in its firmament for ever shines The starlight of divine imaginings, Shedding upon the waves of restless feeling, And aspirations for the undefined, The glory of a cloudless hemisphere. O Stars! that gaze upon me from on high, Like angels from the gates of Paradise, That weave your myriads in a golden chain To bind creation with the Beautiful, As locks are interrun with precious gems To deck a queen out for her royalty: Hear me, ye bright ones, for a poet's love, And let light fall upon my swelling soul, [Pg 14] [Pg 15] To crest each rising thought with purity! There was a time—in youth, ere yet the sands Of life clogged 'neath satiety, but ran Lighter than blithe rills down a mountain's side; There was a time, when in my soul a voice Rang faintly like a huntsman's horn afar, Sounding along a forest; and I arose, And listed, as the bounding Antelope Starts at the echo of a falling bough. Louder it grew, and clearer—"Search for it!" What?—It melted from me, but the voice still came. Then up I gat, and to the pressing world Sped on the wings of passion, striving on Thro' pleasure and thro' pain, alike unchecked. Then, what were lets to me? Amongst the strong I wrestled for ambition's upper seats— Clung to the slippery shrouds of policy— And in my fury prayed for eagle's wings To poize me in the shadow of the sun. At wealth I grasped as a poor crippled wretch Grasps at the crutch that steadies him along; Yet not for it but for the power it brought, For, Timon-like, within my heart of hearts I cursed the yellow dust I trampled on. But by the wayside I sat down and wept As a child weeps above some shattered toy. Oh Misery! to climb the steep of life Led by a phantom without form or truth— To find reality still rising up To crush hope's fabrics with relentless force. All was a fiction, but the voice said "Search!" And glory flashed before me like a wisp, Dazzling me on to bloodshed, and to strife. Upon the field I stood with Victory, And Death in all its ghastliness—Around The dim watchfires stood like a burning wall Betwixt the dead and living. On that night Ye saw me, ye pure ministers of heaven,— Shone on my anguish and my bitter tears. Then, when the mangled forms of fellow-men, With hideous passion stiff upon their lips, Blanch'd 'neath the twilight of your glimmering! Oh! there lay one beside me—a mere youth— Whose dying hands had pressed unto his lips A long fair tress, through which his dying sigh Crept, as in happier days perchance did love's. Witness, ye stars, of my abasement then, Judged and condemned by that poor lover's pledge, Lying there like a messenger of heaven, Breathing of peace and love, mid deadly hate. Glory! thou mirage on this desert life, Charming the weary on to water springs That shrivel up to barrenness ere reach'd! Thou shadow of a shadow that departs As the eye scans its bodiless outlines! Thou golden-imaged Ruin and Despair! When this earth cracks, like a poor blasted rock, Before the burning of Almighty wrath, Thy pallid spectre shall rise up to judge The wretched victims that did trust in thee! "O Heaven!" I said, "lead me to love and peace; Love, that makes all things calm and beautiful, And like the sun, e'en in its setting, flings [Pg 16] [Pg 17] [Pg 18] A glory o'er the cloudy peaks of Time. Peace—that doth hush the throbbing voice of life, Till through the stillness of the Poet's soul, The echoes of Seraphic harmonies Float like a spirit through the blue eterne." I said—"I will sit neath the ancient woods, And list unto the voices of the winds Coming from far o'er spirit lands, and full With stolen snatches of their utterance." I said—"I will lay bare my soul unto the sun, And let its glory rest there till it charm Forth from its womb, as flowers from the cold ground, All lovely thoughts and high imaginings That shed sweet perfume o'er the waste of life. And when the sickle of autumnal time Gathereth in the harvest of ripe thought, Nourish and strengthen long futurity." Then as an eagle fleeth to his crag High in the stillness of the dim cloudland, Fled I from man into the trackless woods, To sate my soul with quietude and song. Then, too, ye saw me, ye pure orbs of heaven, And sent your blessed radiance to my heart In the still twilight of my calm content! Then came an answer to the unseen voice— "O holy calmness of the inner soul! Treasure of treasures! sweetness of all sense! Athwart the smoothness of whose liquid tide Floateth the spirit of eternal love, Tracing a pathway to the All-Divine! Thine is the perfectness of earthly bliss, The brimming of life's chalice o'er with peace, Till thro' all thought and feeling, the pure draught Sheddeth its gladness and serenity. Thine is a joyance passing utterance, A deep delight, that like the songs of heaven, Swell through its fulness, but are mute without. Thou art the goal of most sublime desire, The haven that all longing seeketh for, Where, shaded from the storms and blasts of life, The bark glides gently down the stream of Time." How cloudless is this azure firmament! Brighter than all the dreams of sinless youth! Deeper than the deep heart of woman's love! Now as I gaze upon each shining star, What visions steal upon me with its rays, Of that which makes its glorious excellence! Can there be revelation of high truths But through the channels of weak sense alone, Thus like a fountain filt'ring thro' the clay. Or doth the soul hold converse spiritual With powers unseen that fill the universe, Receiving, as by intuition, things That man attains not by intelligence? Is not the spirit perfect in itself, Unmingled with the base alloy of earth That prisons it within this narrow sphere? Hath it not apprehension natural, Attributive as immortality, Unshackled by an organ that will die Beneath the friction of a few short years? O there is blindness on us in this life, That seeth not the things which lie around, [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] E'en in the circuit of our littleness! But death will loose the scales from off our eyes, And smite our fleshly dwelling place in twain; Freeing the spirit, till with joyous wings It cleave the limits of immensity. Yet now the soul will shake its fetters off, And yearn unto the freedom of the skies, Like a poor bird whose life is liberty. Yon star, methinks, must be a glorious world, Where Nature hath a spiritual life And bloometh on in Spring perpetual, Unsatiating in its loveliness. Verdure of herb and leafy plenitude Spread o'er it like a vesture, and the glow Of sunlit waters smiling from afar, Half as in fancy, half reality. The skies above it glassy and serene As the reflection of its own repose, And every new alternation of the light Shedding new beauties on the scene below. Thus far in fashion, kin to Earth as Time Beareth the impress of Eternity, But differing henceforth as the gentle dove Doth from the vulture on its carrion: The dwellers on this paradisal sphere Methinks, must be of glorious lineament, Clad with the brightness of eternal youth, And buoyant with internal blessedness. Spirits that shining with untarnished light, Radiate, and make matter luminous, Filling the eyes with sweet felicity, And love, and peace, and all emotions pure. No sorrow there to make the vision dim, And wash the mellow ripeness from the cheek; No guilty deed to brand the heart with shame, And write its direful sentence on the brow; No rankling venom struggling through the veins, And blasting all the kindliness within, Till like a torrent bursting o'er restraint, It spread its desolation on mankind; But a pure regnant holiness and love, Directing impulse with most queenly sway To ends of tenderness and charity; A nature purified by fellowship With angels and bright ministers of Heaven, That wander thither from their homes above On missions of benignity and grace. And in this pleasaunce, as by holy need, There reigneth deep communion of soul, That frameth as it were one atmosphere Of joy, and hope, and blessedness for all; No selfish pleasures fluttering before To woo satanic emulation forth, But all combining for one common weal, Moved still by sympathetic influence. How passing beautiful must they not be, Thus dower'd with Virtue's highest attributes, That from the spiritual springeth up A living fount of light and loveliness. Soul is the life of Beauty, as the sun Is of the universe it luminates. O what were matter, fashioned ne'er so fair, But for the beaming of that quenchless light [Pg 22] [Pg 23] That plays around it, like the radiance Of heaven's own glory stamped upon its work? What were the charm of the soft arching brow White as the snow-flake 'neath its golden braid? What were the dimpled cheek with roseate shades Spread o'er it like the budding of a flower, The lips' ripe crimson, and the melting eye, Unbrightened by the sunshine from within, The emanations of seraphic thought, And full emotion, kindling into life Light, grace, the temple that they glorify? Oh Death! when thou dost bear the soul away The charm is shattered—the illusion gone! Ay, they are beautiful, and as bright forms Make fair the mirrors that they image in, So are their courses glorious and glad. Still doth their swelling harmony ascend In thrilling cadence to the gates of heaven, Making the air about them sweet with joy, As summer's breath with floral incense fumes; And every echo learns the words of love, And wonders at its sweet deliciousness, Repeating o'er and o'er the honied tones Till they infuse into their secret souls. O ye bright orbs! your shining would be dimmed By sin and all its pallid consequence, Till scarce a glimmer fluttered on the sky To 'lume the dreamer to your sadden'd sphere. But ye have held your priceless birthright sure, And walk among the panoply of heaven, Clear and true-hearted as the sons of God. Yet may we gaze upon you from afar As the unstained gaze on the innocent, Lovely and peerless in their purity, Smitten and wondering with humbleness Of that which is your everlasting dower; Quenching within us pride and earthliness Before the glance of your serenity; Aspiring ever for the spirit life, That casting off this fleshly tenement, With all its weakness and infirmities, Entereth on the cycle of the just, Unstained, immortal, glorious and strong! Scene. A Grove—Noontide. Man. There is no place so sweet as the greenwoods In summer, heaven and earth awake with sounds Melodial; the ripple of the breeze Amongst the sun-green leaves, and pliant boughs, Just like the rustle of young summer's dress; The songs of birds, and the low mystic hum Of bees amongst their floral treasuries; Sweetest of all, the cool and liquid tones Of brooks—nature's true-hearted bards, who draw Bright inspirations from a pebbled ridge, And frame them into sweetest melody. There's poetry in every pendent leaf If we could read them truly; but our hearts Grow strange to nature's language in the world, Nor can translate their heaven lore. Ev'ry change From bud to full-blown ripeness, thence again [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] To sereness and decay, is as the flow Of a short tale, whose moral is life's history. The woods were made for poets and all dreamers, Men who philosophize Time's hour-glass down, And younger grow, till with the last shot sand— They die. The very leaves are fanciful, And write their maxims on the sward in sun And shadow. Here I'll lay me down and dream An hour away amongst these violets! O my heart joys to gaze upon the sky Gleaming athwart green leaves, like happiness Above the gloom and shadow of the world! Then, thought first feels its attribute divine, And like a callow eagle spreads its wings, And makes its rest amid the lumin'd heavens. The lark sings poized above me in the sun, Like Moslem in his gilded minaret Calling the faithful unto matin prayer. There would my spirit follow thee, sweet bird, Ling'ring for ever in the midway air, Earth shrouded 'neath me by ascending mists, And sunny-crested cloudlets, like the base Of bright Imagination's airy halls, Whose roof is the star-fretted empyrean: Thence let the world hear my full gushing joy, And thrill at pleasures they can never know, Hear the sweet tumult of my throbbing breast, Like a clear spring of joyance bubbling up And overflowing time and space with streams; Whilst I, wrapt in my own high blessedness, Drain the sweet nectar shareless and alone. Spirit. The lark is beauteous in its skiey home, Amid the confluence of heaven's brightest rays Singing for heaven and earth undying hymns Of beauty, and deep-hearted tenderness; But more, when sinking on its own sweet song, It flutter, jubilant, to its soft nest Couched in the lowly bosom of the earth. And so it is with life. Man may build up A pillar of misanthropy and self, Raising him, statue-like, above his kind, And emulate the monumental stone In coldness and stern-browed indifference, But in the paths of love, and sympathy, And lowly charity, true glory lies, The substance of all joy and happiness. Let not thy spirit spurn man's fellowship, And force the stream of kindness up life's steep, Till, 'mid the rocky peaks of Thought it flow Unmargined by the verdant bloom of Act. Shun Self! 'tis like the worm a rosy bud Folds in its young embraces till it gnaw The heart out. Nature's is no volume writ For his interpreting who measures still Her wisdom by the inverted standard rule Of his own barrenness and blind conceit. There's not a flower but with its own sweet breath Cries out on selfishness, the while it gives Its fragrant treasures to the summer air; And not a bird within the greenwood shade, The burden of whose gentle minstrelsie Is not of love and open-hearted joy. [Pg 27] [Pg 28] [Pg 29] The blest of earth are they whose sympathies Are free to all as streams by the wayside, Cheering, sustaining by their limpid tide, The weary and the footsore of the earth. O summer sunshine! floating round all things, Meadow and hill and leafy coverture, Steeping all Nature in most sweet delight, Till upward from the bosom of the earth, Before so cold and blank and unadorned, Spring fairest flowers to gladden and adore— That fillest the blue vault of heaven with smiles As of a mother smiling on her child, Pure, holy, without guile or artifice, Melting the spirit of each fleeting cloud From darkness unto beauty and soft grace— Thou art the emblem of that perfect love That sheddeth joy around it evermore, And from whose sweetness rise all gentle thoughts As scent from vernal flowers; that in the heart Waketh all goodness by a magic spell, As the fine touch of blindness makes a page Start into instant light and eloquence. Cherish thou kindness ever, for this life Would be most blissful if its sunshine came To strengthen on Endeavour to its aim. Man. Methinks there is no blessedness in life More full than that which springs in solitude; A fount unruffled by the outer world, Unmingled with its honey or its gall; But welling through the spirit silently, Like a pure rill within a garden's bounds. Let my life float, like the sad Indian's lamp, Along the waves of Time, unpiloted Save by the breath of heaven, and the stirred tide, Till when its course be run it sink to rest Beyond the ken and fathoming of man; Let me not be a legend mouthed about By empty gossips o'er their clinking cups, Who tell the last sad tale and with a smack Turn to the merits of the passing wine. 'Twere something to be wept for by the young And beautiful, but tears are things that dry Sooner than dew upon the waking flowers, Leaving the heart e'en gladder for their flow. O could my life subside into a dream Rising amid the stillness of calm sleep, Filling the soul with radiant images Of love, and grace, and beauty, all serene And shadowless as yon blue sky is now!— Would that the outward shows and forms of things Could melt away from cold reality To the warm brightness of the spiritual, Losing the grossness of this present world, As a fair face doth mirror'd in a glass— And thus, reposing in seraphic trance, Let the few years of earth's existence pass, Like minutes in the quietness of sleep, And waken to the glorious dawn of Heaven, Refreshed, and scatheless from mortality. Spirit. [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] Thy wish, attain'd, would brand thee deep with shame; Life was not made to rust in idle sloth Until the canker eat its gloss away, But like a falchion to grow bright with use, And hew a passage to eternal bliss! Canst thou stand 'fore that glory of the sun, That like God's beacon on Eternity Wakeneth up Creation unto Act, And sheddeth strength and hope, to cheer them on, Yet rebel-wise cast down thine untried arms, Ere foes assail thee, or thy work be done? No, there's a power within the soul that yearns For action, as the lark for liberty, Pursuing ever with insatiate thirst And aspiration, some unsubstant aim. There is assertion of the rule divine, That rest must follow labour as the night Closeth the turmoil of the wakeful day; Then let the bright sun lead thee like a king With dauntless heart to struggle and o'ercome, Uncheck'd by mischance or poor discontent, That shrivels up a monarch to a clown, And rends his purple into beggar's rags. Let no alluring plea of sensuous ease Draw thee away from honour's rugged path, Till sleep fall on thee from the wings of death, And bear thee to sweet dreams and Paradise! Man. How sweet it is to read fair Nature o'er Reclining thus upon her gentle breast, Like a young child that in her mother's face Traceth the motions of deep tenderness, Listing the murmurs of strange melodies That wander ever round her fresh and clear, Whence the sweet singers of our earth have caught Rapt harmonies and echoed them for aye! What study is like Nature's lumined page, So glorious with perfect excellence, That like the flowing of a mighty wind It fills the crevices and deeps of soul! No upper chamber and no midnight oil For me, to throw dim light upon the scroll, Whose feeble pedantry dulls down the soul From high imaginings to senseless words; But for my lamp I'll have the summer sun Set in the brightness of the firmament; My chamber shall be canopied by heaven, Gemmed by the glory of the fixëd stars, And round it floating evermore the breath Of nascent flowers, and fragrant greenery: And for my books, all lovely things in Earth And air, and heaven, all seasons and all times. The Spring shall bring me all the thoughts of youth, Its budding hopes and buoyant happiness; 'Twill sing me lays of tenderness and love, That are the first sweet flowers of childhood's days, And win me back to purity and joy With the untainted current of its breath. Summer will be the volume of the heart, Expanded with the strength of growing life, Swelling with full brimm'd feeling evermore, And power and passion longing to be forth; [Pg 33] [Pg 34]