Landon in The Literary Gazette 1831/The Hall of Statues
4
Literary Gazette, 25th June, 1831, Pages 411-412
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE HALL OF STATUES.
Rich the crimson curtains fell,
Coloured with the hues that dwell
In the Tyrian's purple shell—
That bright secret which is known
To the mighty past alone.
Forty pillars rose between,
In that fine Corinthian mould
When a life's whole task has been
How to work the burning gold—
Gold which some young conqueror's hand
Brought from many a vanquish'd land;
Then bade genius raise a shrine—
Thus profaning the divine—
Till his rapine and his crime
Grew in that false light sublime.
Azure was the roof, and light
Pour'd down from the crystal dome;
Clear the crystal was and bright
As in its own ocean home.
Polish'd like a warrior's shield,
Black (for such the quarries yield
Where the sun hath never shone,
Which night only rests upon,)
Was the marble floor, which gave
Mirror like some clear dark wave.
Silent was that hall around,
Moved no step and stirred no sound;
Yet the shapes of life were there,
Spiritual, calm, and fair—
Statues to whose rest seem'd given
Not the life of earth but heaven;
For each statue here enshrined
What in the immortal mind
Makes its beauty and its power—
Genius's eternal dower:
Those embodyings of thought
Which within the spirit wrought
In its most ethereal time,
Of its own and earlier clime
Ere the shade and soil of earth
Tainted an immortal birth.
Thankful should we be to those
Who disdain a dull repose—
Who have head and heart on fire
With unquenchable desire
Of those higher hopes which spring
Heavenward on an eager wing—
Those wide aims which seek to bind
Man the closer with his kind—
By earth's most unearthly ties,
Praises, hopes, and sympathies;
And call beauty, like a dream,
Up from life's most troubled stream.
From that mighty crystal dome,
Clear and cold the sunbeams roam
Over th' ethereal band
Which beside the column stand.
God of the West Wind, awake!
See who fain thy sleep would break*—
She, the morning's gracious power,
Born in its most lovely hour,
When the stars retire in night
For the mighty fates to write
On their rays the word and sign
Only prophets may divine;
When the blushing clouds are breaking,
As if Love himself were waking—
When the sun first turns the mist
Into melted amethyst—
She hath bade the north wind keep
In his caverns dark and deep—
Told the south wind, that his breath
Fades too soon the morning wreath—
Sent the east wind where the sands
Sweep around the pilgrim bands—
Her sweet hand is on thy brow—
Wake thee, gentle West Wind, now.
She doth want thy wings to bear
Morning's messages through air,
Where the dewy grass is keeping
Watch above the skylark's sleeping;
Stir the clover with thy wing,
Send him 'mid the clouds to sing.
Thou must go and kiss the rose,
Crimson with the night's repose;
She will sigh for coming day,
Bear thou that sweet sigh away;
On the violet's sleepy eyes
Pour the azure of the skies;
From the rich and purple wreath
Steal the fragrance of its breath;
Wake the bees to the sweet spoil
Which rewards their summer toil;
Shake the bough, and rouse the bird,
Till one general song is heard;
Fling aside the glittering leaves,
Till the darkest nook receives
Somewhat of the morning beam;
Stir the ripples of the stream,
Till it flash like silver back
In the white swan's radiant track.
Rouse thee for Aurora's sake—
God of the West Wind, awake!
Close beside's a child,† whose hand
O'er a lute holds sweet command:
Like a spirit is that child—
For his gentle lip is mild,
And his smile like those which trace
Sunshine on an angel's face:
But upon that brow is wrought
Evidence of deeper thought,
Higher hopes, and keener fears,
Than should mark such infant years.
Childhood should have laughing eye,
Where tears pass like showers by—
When the sky becomes more bright,
For a moment's shadowed light.
Childhood's step should be as gay
As the sunbeam on its way:
There will come another hour,
When fate rules with harsher power—
When the weary mind is worn
By the sorrow it hath borne—
When desire sits down to weep
Over hope's unbroken sleep—
When we know our care and toil
Cultures an ungrateful soil—
When in our extremest need
Only grows the thorn and weed—
Well the face may be o'ercast
By the troubles it has past.
Ah, fair child! I read it now
By the meaning on thy brow—
By thy deep and thoughtful eyes,
Where the soul of genius lies;
Even now the shade is o'er thee
Of the path which lies before thee;
For thy hand is on the lyre,
And thy lip is living fire,
And before thee is the wreath
Which the poet wins by death.
Brief and weary life is thine—
But thy future is divine.
Near it kneels a maid in prayer,*
Fair as the white rose is fair—
With a sad and chastened look,
As the spirit early took
Bitter lessons, how on earth
Flowers perish in their birth,
Blossoms fall before they bloom,
And the bud is its own tomb.
Once she dreamed a gentle dream—
Such, alas! love's ever seem—
Whence she only waked to know
Every thing is false below.
Soon the warm heart has to learn
Lessons of despair, and turn
From a world whose charm is o'er
When its hope deceives no more.
Maiden, thy young brow is cold—
'Tis because thy heart is old;
And thine eyes are raised above,
For earth hath betrayed thy love.
Dark the shades of evening fall—
Night is gathering o'er that hall;
All seems indistinct and pale—
Thick falls the shadowy veil;
All the shapes I gazed upon,
Like the dream that raised them, gone.
L. E. L.
* Mr. Hollins' Aurora waking Zephyrus.
† Mr. Lough's Child playing a Lyre.
* Mr. Macdonald's Supplicating Virgin.