WHOSE is the love that, gleaming through the world, Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?
Harriet! on thine :-thou wert my purer mind; Thou wert the inspiration of my song;
Thine are these early wilding flowers, Though garlanded by me.
Then press into thy breast this pledge of love, And know, though time may change and years may roll, Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep!
One, pale as yonder waning moon, With lips of lurid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave, It blushes o'er the world: Yet both so passing wonderful!
Hath then the gloomy Power Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres Seized on her sinless soul
Must then that peerless form
Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline, which is fair
As breathing marble, perish? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme, On which the lightest heart might moralize} Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation,
Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness?
Will Ianthe wake again,
And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture, from her smile?
Yes! she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips,
Once breathing eloquence
That might have soothed a tiger's rage, Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. Her dewy eyes are closed,
And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed: Her golden tresses shade
The bosom's stainless pride,
Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column.
Hark! whence that rushing sound? 'Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells, Which, wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at evening: "Tis softer than the west wind's sigh; "Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings The genii of the breezes sweep:
Those lines of rainbow light
Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedral window, but the teints
Are such as may not find Comparison on earth.
Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light: These the Queen of Spells drew in, She spread a charm around the spot, And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently,
Upon the slumbering maid.
Oh! not the visioned poet in his dreams, When silvery clouds float through the wildered brain, When every sight of lovely, wild and grand, Astonishes, enraptures, elevates- When fancy at a glance combines The wondrous and the beautiful,— So bright, so fair, so wild a shape Hath ever yet beheld,
As that which reined the coursers of the air, And poured the magic of her gaze
Upon the sleeping maid.
The broad and yellow moon Shone dimly through her form- That form of faultless symmetry; The pearly and pellucid car
Moved not the moonlight's line: "Twas not an earthly pageant; Those who had looked upon the sight, Passing all human glory,
Saw not the yellow moon,
Saw not the mortal scene,
Heard not the night-wind's rush,
Heard not an earthly sound,
Saw but the fairy pageant,
Heard but the heavenly strains
That filled the lonely dwelling.
The Fairy's frame was slight; yon fibrous cloud, That catches but the palest tinge of even, And which the straining eye can hardly seize When melting into eastern twilight's shadow, Were scarce so thin, so slight; but the fair star, That gems the glittering coronet of morn,
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form, Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, Yet with an undulating motion, Swayed to her outline gracefully.
From her celestial car
The Fairy Queen descended, And thrice she waved her wand Circled with wreaths of amaranth: Her thin and misty form Moved with the moving air, And the clear silver tones, As thus she spoke, were such As are unheard by all but gifted ear.
Fairy. Stars! your balmiest influence shed! Elements! your wrath suspend ! Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds That circle thy domain!
Let not a breath be seen to stir Around yon grass-grown ruin's height, Let even the restless gossamer Sleep on the moveless air!
Soul of Ianthe thou,
Judged alone worthy of the envied boon
That waits the good and the sincere; that waits Those who have struggled, and with resolute will Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, burst the chains, The icy chains of custom, and have shone
The day-stars of their age;-Soul of Ianthe! Awake! arise !
Sudden arose
Ianthe's Soul; it stood
All beautiful in naked purity,
The perfect semblance of its bodily frame. Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, Each stain of earthliness Had passed away, it reassumed Its native dignity, and stood Immortal amid ruin.
Upon the couch the body lay, Wrapt in the depth of slumber:
Its features were fixed and meaningless, Yet animal life was there,
And every organ yet performed Its natural functions; 'twas a sight Of wonder to behold the body and soul. The self-same lineaments, the same Marks of identity were there ;
Yet, oh how different! One aspires to heaven, Pants for its sempiternal heritage,
And ever-changing, ever-rising still,
Wantons in endless being.
The other, for a time the unwilling sport
Of circumstance and passion, struggles on; Fleets through its sad duration rapidly; Then like a useless and worn-out machine, Rots, perishes and passes.
Fairy. Spirit! who hast dived so deep; Spirit! who hast soared so high; Thou the fearless, thou the mild, Accept the boon thy worth hath earned, Ascend the car with me.
Spirit. Do I dream? Is this new feeling But a visioned ghost of slumber? If indeed I am a soul,
A free, a disembodied soul,
Speak again to me.
Fairy. I am the Fairy MAB: to me 'tis given The wonders of the human world to keep. The secrets of the immeasurable past, In the unfailing consciences of men,
Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find: The future, from the causes which arise In each event, I gather: not the sting Which retributive memory implants In the hard bosom of the selfish man; Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day, Are unforeseen, unregistered by me: And it is yet permitted me, to rend The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, Clothed in its changeless purity, may know How soonest to accomplish the great end For which it hath its being, and may taste That peace, which, in the end, all life will share. This is the meed of virtue; happy Soul, Ascend the car with me!
The chains of earth's immurement Fell from Ianthe's spirit;
They shrank and brake like bandages of straw Beneath a wakened giant's strength.
She knew her glorious change,
And felt in apprehension uncontrolled New raptures opening round:
Each day-dream of her mortal life, Each frenzied vision of the slumbers That closed each well-spent day, Seemed now to meet reality.
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