MESOURANÉMA.
Bend over me! bend with your radiant skies,
O, land of the heart's own paradise!
I have lived too long amidst drooping flowers,
I pine for the light of thy golden hours;
For the sunshine that maketh the heart a home,
Where shadow hath never dared to come;
For the fragrance that liveth upon the air,
And maketh the bosom its place of prayer;
For the smile that hovers upon the lips,
And is never dimmed by the heart's eclipse;
And those glorious strains that ever seem
But pinions to some delightful dream,
That beareth us up from the earth away,
To the purer light of a perfect day!
O, land of the heart's own paradise!
I have lived too long amidst drooping flowers,
I pine for the light of thy golden hours;
For the sunshine that maketh the heart a home,
Where shadow hath never dared to come;
For the fragrance that liveth upon the air,
And maketh the bosom its place of prayer;
For the smile that hovers upon the lips,
And is never dimmed by the heart's eclipse;
And those glorious strains that ever seem
But pinions to some delightful dream,
That beareth us up from the earth away,
To the purer light of a perfect day!
Bend over me! bend with your smiling skies,
O, land of diviner harmonies!
Our world hath never a sound of mirth,
But is filled with the dreaminess of earth;
Our fingers have never touched a chord,
But a mornful prelude abroad was poured;
No strain may over our waters creep,
But maketh us turn aside and weep,
For our "bosom's lord" is seldom glad,
And the sweetest music is always sad.
A shadow is ever before our eyes,
Like a ghost of regretful memories,
That hideth the future from our sight,
And points us back to a starless night,
Where no theme breaks over that world of ours,
But the cheerless one of misspent hours.
O, land of diviner harmonies!
Our world hath never a sound of mirth,
But is filled with the dreaminess of earth;
Our fingers have never touched a chord,
But a mornful prelude abroad was poured;
No strain may over our waters creep,
But maketh us turn aside and weep,
For our "bosom's lord" is seldom glad,
And the sweetest music is always sad.
A shadow is ever before our eyes,
Like a ghost of regretful memories,
That hideth the future from our sight,
And points us back to a starless night,
Where no theme breaks over that world of ours,
But the cheerless one of misspent hours.
Bend over me I bend with your tender skies,
O, land of sublimer sympathies!
Too much, too much have our spirits known,
The sunshine and shadow around them thrown!
Too long have we lived on the smiles of earth,
Too long have we wandered 'mid hollow mirth!
The hearts that should love us, too soon grow cold,
The feelings that nerve us too soon grow old!
And we learn to think that the world is fair,
Yet false as the falsest being there,
As April skies; and changeful skies,
Are not so dreary as changeful eyes!
O, land of sublimer sympathies!
Too much, too much have our spirits known,
The sunshine and shadow around them thrown!
Too long have we lived on the smiles of earth,
Too long have we wandered 'mid hollow mirth!
The hearts that should love us, too soon grow cold,
The feelings that nerve us too soon grow old!
And we learn to think that the world is fair,
Yet false as the falsest being there,
As April skies; and changeful skies,
Are not so dreary as changeful eyes!
I have thought, O! beautiful clime, of thee,
When the stars looked earthward in brilliancy!
When thy flowers appeared through their silver dew,
As if a heaven were shining through;—
And I wondered then, if thy shores could be,
As the star, so far from earth and me;
If thy skies were only fabled skies,
Removed for aye from our longing eyes;
If the breath of each aromatic gale,
Were but the theme of a poet's tale;
If the beauty that dwelt upon thy plains,
Were found alone in his music-strains,
And the glory that like to heaven did seem,
Were nothing else than an idle dream!
When the stars looked earthward in brilliancy!
When thy flowers appeared through their silver dew,
As if a heaven were shining through;—
And I wondered then, if thy shores could be,
As the star, so far from earth and me;
If thy skies were only fabled skies,
Removed for aye from our longing eyes;
If the breath of each aromatic gale,
Were but the theme of a poet's tale;
If the beauty that dwelt upon thy plains,
Were found alone in his music-strains,
And the glory that like to heaven did seem,
Were nothing else than an idle dream!
I have thought of thee in the morning-light,
I have dreamed of thee in the silent night;
And as I stood beneath thy skies,
And gazed in the depths of loving eyes,
My heart was filled with a strange perfume,
When I saw thy flowers around me bloom;—
Those tell-tale flowers, that ever speak
Of the heart, like a blush on woman's cheek!
They could not live in a colder clime,
They would perish away with the things of time;
And leave not even a leaf to tell,
The language they used to speak so well!
I have dreamed of thee in the silent night;
And as I stood beneath thy skies,
And gazed in the depths of loving eyes,
My heart was filled with a strange perfume,
When I saw thy flowers around me bloom;—
Those tell-tale flowers, that ever speak
Of the heart, like a blush on woman's cheek!
They could not live in a colder clime,
They would perish away with the things of time;
And leave not even a leaf to tell,
The language they used to speak so well!
And I saw thy fountains around me rise,
Pure, like the light of thy children's eyes—
And methought that the spirit of truth therein
Had dwelt since the world had sunk in sin;
And that lingering long by the sacred shrine,
Thy children had drunk of the draught divine:
I thought, could the fountain of youth be found.
It was here alone, on this peaceful ground,
Where the heart and the eyes are always young,
And innocence ever upon the tongue;
Where no hate hath stirred and no anger moved
The heart to err from the lips beloved.
Pure, like the light of thy children's eyes—
And methought that the spirit of truth therein
Had dwelt since the world had sunk in sin;
And that lingering long by the sacred shrine,
Thy children had drunk of the draught divine:
I thought, could the fountain of youth be found.
It was here alone, on this peaceful ground,
Where the heart and the eyes are always young,
And innocence ever upon the tongue;
Where no hate hath stirred and no anger moved
The heart to err from the lips beloved.
And thy thousand suns above me shone,
And thy thousand odors abroad were blown,
As I looked from earth to thy realm above,
I wondered not that all was love,
For beauty was over me and around,
And there was sweetness in every sound;
No clarion-voice was upon the air,
Telling of battle or triumph there;
No tents were spread o'er the peaceful plain,
There was no wailing over the slain;—
Thou never hadst felt the need of war,
Nor wast ever dazzled by glory's star!
And thy thousand odors abroad were blown,
As I looked from earth to thy realm above,
I wondered not that all was love,
For beauty was over me and around,
And there was sweetness in every sound;
No clarion-voice was upon the air,
Telling of battle or triumph there;
No tents were spread o'er the peaceful plain,
There was no wailing over the slain;—
Thou never hadst felt the need of war,
Nor wast ever dazzled by glory's star!
Bend over me then, with thy loving skies,
0, land of the heart's own paradise!
I long for the breath of thy perfumed gales,
For the beauty that lingers within thy vales;
I long for the truth that alone is found,
On every spot of thy hallowed ground;
Tor thy flowers that speak of affection, true
As the heaven above them, as lasting too;
For love's own dwelling, where we may find
Innocence saint-like in every mind,—
Bend over me, bend with your golden hours,
Or my heart will die, amidst dying flowers!
0, land of the heart's own paradise!
I long for the breath of thy perfumed gales,
For the beauty that lingers within thy vales;
I long for the truth that alone is found,
On every spot of thy hallowed ground;
Tor thy flowers that speak of affection, true
As the heaven above them, as lasting too;
For love's own dwelling, where we may find
Innocence saint-like in every mind,—
Bend over me, bend with your golden hours,
Or my heart will die, amidst dying flowers!