Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock That sullenly refuses to partake
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life Invisible, the long procession moves Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, And in the bosom of the firmament
O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, A type of her capacious self and all
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, A little hoary line and faintly traced, Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot Or of his flock?-joint vestige of them both. I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts
Admit no bondage and my words have wings. Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, To accompany the verse? The mountain blast Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales Which by their aid reclothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods, And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers Love them; and every idle breeze of air Bends to the favorite burden. Moon and stars
Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, As if some Protean art the change had wrought, In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings! Ye are their perilous offspring; and the Sun- Source inexhaustible of life and joy,
And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse, A blazing intellectual deity-
Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood
Visions with all but beatific light
Enriched, too transient were they not renewed From age to age, and did not, while we gaze In silent rapture, credulous desire
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought! Yet why repine, created as we are
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE.
THE gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the Painter's skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim The daring thought, forget the name;
This the Sun's Bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air's rude billows is unknown; Whom Sylphs, if e'er for casual pastime they Through India's spicy regions wing their way, Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee, Of all thy feathered progeny
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? So richly decked in variegated down,
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown, Tints softly with each other blended,
Hues doubtfully begun and ended;
Or intershooting, and to sight
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light
Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and
Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life
Began the pencil's strife,
O'erweening Art was caught as in a snare.
A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong Gave the first impulse to the Poet's song; But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew A juster judgment from a calmer view; And, with a spirit freed from discontent, Thankfully took an effort that was meant Not with God's bounty, Nature's love, to vie, Or made with hope to please that inward eye Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, But to recall the truth by some faint trace Of power ethereal and celestial grace, That in the living Creature find on earth a place.
(IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE.)
GENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings
Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things
To pencil dear and pen,
Thou wouldst forego the neighboring Rhine,
And all his majesty,
A studious forehead to incline
O'er this poor family.
The Mother, her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came
To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;
An image, too, of that sweet Boy, Thy inspirations give,- Of playfulness, and love, and joy, Predestined here to live.
Downcast, or shooting glances far, How beautiful his eyes, That blend the nature of the star With that of summer skies! I speak as if of sense beguiled; Uncounted months are gone, Yet am I with the Jewish Child, That exquisite Saint John.
I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, The smooth, transparent skin, Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within ;
The grace of parting Infancy
By blushes yet untamed; Age faithful to the mother's knee, Nor of her arms ashamed.
Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet As flowers, stand side by side; Their soul-subduing looks might cheat The Christian of his pride:
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