And the blue festal Heavens above him bending,
As if to fold a world where none could die!
And who was he that look'd upon these things?
—If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were wings—
To bear him o'er creation! and whose mind
Was as an air-harp, wakening to the sway
Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined,
With all the mystic harmonies that lay
Far in the slumber of its chords enshrined,
Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way.
—There was no sound that wander'd through the sky,
But told him secrets in its melody.
Was the deep forest lonely unto him
With all its whispering leaves?—Each dell and glade
Teem'd with such forms as on the moss-clad brim
Of fountains in their sparry grottoes play'd,
Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight dim,
Or misty noontide in the laurel-shade.
—There is no solitude on earth so deep
As that where man decrees that man should weep!
But oh! the life in Nature's green domains,
The breathing sense of joy! where flowers are springing
By starry thousands, on the slopes and plains,
And the grey rocks!—and all the arch'd woods ringing,
And the young branches trembling to the strains
Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine winging
Their fearless flight!—and sylvan echoes round,
Mingling all tones to one Eolian sound!—
And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams,
And the low cadence of the silvery sea,
And reed-notes from the mountains, and the beams
Of the warm sun—all these are for the Free!
And they were his once more, the Bard, whose dreams
Their spirit still had haunted!—Could it be
That he had borne the chain?—Oh! who shall dare
To say how much man's heart uncrush'd may bear?
So deep a root hath hope!—But woe for this,
Our frail mortality! that aught so bright,
So almost burden'd with excess of bliss,
As the rich hour which back to summer's light
Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss
Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight
Of the green earth, must so be bought with years
Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears!
And feeding a slow fire on all its powers,
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain,
If hardly won at length, too late made ours,
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers
Which wither'd in the noontide, ne'er again
To lift their heads in glory!—So doth Earth
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth!
The sailor dies in sight of that green shore,
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seem'd to lie
Page:Felicia Hemans in the New Monthly Magazine Volume 8 1823.pdf/18
