The lay which genius, in its loneliness,
Its own still world amidst th' o'erpeopled world,
Hath ever breathed to Love.
They crown me with the glistening crown,
Borne from a deathless tree;
I hear the pealing music of renown—
O Love! forsake me not
Mine were a lone dark lot,
Bereft of thee!
They tell me that my soul can throw
A glory o'er the earth;
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!
Shed by thy gentle eyes
It gives to flower and skies,
A bright, new birth!
Thence gleams the path of morning,
Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone!
Thence to its heart of hearts, the Rose is burning
With lustre not its own!
Thence every wood-recess
Is fill'd with loveliness,
Each bower, to ringdoves and dim violets known.
I see all beauty by the ray
That streameth from thy smile;
Oh! bear it, bear it not away!
Can that sweet light beguile?
Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,
To linger long by earthly streams;
I clasp it with th' alloy
Of fear 'midst quivering joy,
Yet must I perish if the gift depart—
Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!
The music from my lyre
With thy swift step would flee;
The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire
In my deep soul—a temple fill'd with thee!
Seal’d would the fountains lie,
The waves of harmony,
Which thou alone canst free!
Like a shrine 'midst rocks forsaken,
Whence the oracle hath fled;
Like a harp which none might waken
But a mighty master dead;
Like the vase of a perfume scatter'd,
Such would my spirit be;
So mute, so void, so shatter'd,
Bereft of thee!
Leave me not, Love! or if this earth
Yield not for thee a home,
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers—"Come!"
Then, with the glory from the rose,
With the sparkle from the stream,
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws
Over the poet's dream;
With all th' Elysian hues
Thy pathway that suffuse,
With joy, with music, from the fading grove,
Take me, too, heavenward, on thy wing, sweet Love!
Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 31 1832.pdf/15
