Enough from incommunicable dream, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain And motions of the forests and the sea, There was a Poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared, But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness :A lovely youth,—no mourning maiden decked With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:Gentle, and brave, and generous, no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh: He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes, And virgins, as unknown he past, have pined And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn, And Silence, too enamoured of that voice, Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. By solemn vision, and bright silver dream, His infancy was nurtured. Every sight And sound from the vast earth and ambient air, HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. THE awful shadow of some unseen Power Each human heart and countenance; Like hues and harmonies of evening, Like clouds in starlight widely spread,- Like aught that for its grace may be Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon Of human thought or form,-where art thou gone? Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate ? Ask why the sunlight not for ever Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river, Why aught should fail and fade that once is shewn, Why fear and dream and death and birth Cast on the daylight of this earth Such gloom,-why man has such a scope For love and hate, despondency and hope? B No voice from some sublimer world hath ever To sage or poet these responses givenTherefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour, Frail spells—whose uttered charm might not avail to sever, From all we hear and all we see, Thy light alone-like mist o'er mountains driven, Thro' strings of some still instrument, Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream. Love, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds depart Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, That wax and wane in lovers' eyes— Like darkness to a dying flame ! Depart not as thy shadow came, Depart not-lest the grave should be, Like life and fear, a dark reality. While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed, Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy! I vowed that I would dedicate my powers To thee and thine have I not kept the vow? With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now I call the phantoms of a thousand hours Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned bowers Of studious zeal or love's delight Outwatched with me the envious night— They know that never joy illumed my brow Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free This world from its dark slavery, That thou-O awful LOVELINESS, Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express. The day becomes more solemn and serene |