The Body and the Soul united then; A gentle start convulsed Ianthe's frame; Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained: That through the casement shone. ALASTOR: OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quærebam quid amarem amans amare. PREFACE. THE poem entitled "Alastor," may be considered as allegorical of one of the most interesting situations of the human mind. It represents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and adventurous genius, led forth by an imagination inflamed and purified through familiarity with all that is excellent and majestic, to the contemplation of the universe. He drinks deep of the fountains of knowledge, and is still insatiate. The magnificence and beauty of the external world sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions, and affords to their modifications a variety not to be exhausted. So long as it is possible for his desires to point towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured, he is joyous, and tranquil, and self-possessed. But the period arrives when these objects cease to suffice. His mind is at length suddenly awakened, and thirsts for intercourse with an intelligence similar to itself. He images to himself the Being whom he loves. Conversant with speculations of the sublimest and most perfect natures, the vision in which he embodies his own imaginations, unites all of wonderful, or wise, or beautiful, which the poet, the philosopher, or the lover, could depicture. The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the functions of sense, have their respective requisitions on the sympathy of corresponding powers in other human beings. The Poet is represented as uniting these requisitions, and attaching them to a single image. He seeks in vain for a prototype of his conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he descends to an untimely grave. The picture is not barren of instruction to actual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power which strikes the luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening them to too exquisite a perception of its influences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion. Their destiny is more abject and inglorious, as their delinquency is more contemptible and pernicious. They who, deluded by no generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with human grief; these, and such as they, have their apportioned curse. They languish, because none feel with them their common nature. They are morally dead. They are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their country. Among those who attempt to exist without human sympathy, the pure and tenderhearted perish through the intensity and passion of their search after its communities, when the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, together with their own, the lasting misery and loneliness of the world. Those who love not their fellow-beings, live unfruitful lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave. The good die first, And those whose hearts are dry as summer's dust December 14, 1815. EARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood! Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; I consciously have injured, but still loved Mother of this unfathomable world Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, With my most innocent love, until strange tears, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain There was a Poet whose untimely tomb By solemn vision and bright silver dream, And sound from the vast earth and ambient air Fled not his thirsting lips: and all of great, In truth or fable' consecrates, he felt And knew. When early youth had past, he left To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke: or where bitumen lakes, With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves, To avarice or pride, their starry domes His wandering step, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange Sculptured on alabaster obelisk, Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx, Dark Ethiopia on her desert hills Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Of more than man, where marble demons watch Of the world's youth, through the long burning day And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food, To speak her love :-and watched his nightly sleep, Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath The Poet wandering on, through Arabie In joy and exultation held his way; Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought; its music long, Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues. Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame |